Bon Appetit
by Predec2
Summary: What do you get when you stir in a pinch of idol worship, a dash of arrogance, and just a bit of jealousy? Justin and Emmett take French cooking lessons. Emmett/Justin friendship, eventual Brian/Justin romance
1. Chapter 1: Introduction to the Chef

A flash of orange and raspberry in the form of Emmett Honeycutt rushed into the Liberty Diner at the height of the morning breakfast rush. "Teddy!" Emmett gushed. "Just the little ole friend I was hoping to see," he proclaimed, giving his good friend a little peck on the cheek before plunking himself down on the adjacent counter stool.

"Hey, Em!" Theodore greeted his friend warmly; Emmett could always make him smile, no matter what kind of day he was having – his friend's zest for life was always a pick-me-upper. "What brings you into our humble neighborhood diner so bright and chipper today? Get a little lucky last night?" he asked, inquisitively, downing his second cup of coffee of the day.

Signaling to Kikki for coffee and some blueberry pancakes, Em returned his smile. "Well, you COULD say I cooked myself up a tasty little idea in my head; unfortunately, that was the ONLY tasty tidbit from last night, though," he explained a little regretfully, but just momentarily. "No matter, however – I've got a wonderful idea for the two of us, Teddy! You have GOT to help me with it!" he gushed enthusiastically.

Ted looked at him a little warily, wondering just what type of activity Emmett had in mind. "Is that so? And just what type of help does this involve, my friend?"

"Well, while I was watching some of the news last night, they were talking about Gaston Marchant – you DO know who Gaston Marchant is, don't you?" he inquired pointedly, as though that was a totally ridiculous question to ask.

Ted pondered the name for several seconds. "Well, it SOUNDS familiar in a way," he replied tentatively. "Isn't he some new porn star?"

"Teddy! Don't be ridiculous! How can you not know the name of THE most possibly famous French chef alive today?" he asked incredulously, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. "I mean, the man's cooking is unbelievable. Not to mention the man himself," Em confided in a lower voice. "The man's cooking is not the only thing that's HOT, believe you me, Honey," he intimated conspiratorially. "My, my, my," he gushed "Actually, he COULD be a porn star - that body, and that French accent to boot. I mean, the man's definitely equipped with more than a cocktail weenie, if you know what I mean," he intimated, eyebrows waggling.

Despite not knowing much about the man his friend was going on - and on - about, Ted had to laugh nonetheless. "Okay, Em, I get the picture," he told him. "But what does that have to do with ME?" he asked.

"Oh, that's the best part!" he enthused. "The man's coming to the Pitts to conduct French cooking classes at the downtown Culinary Institute next week. We have GOT to sign up!" he cried, as he emphatically speared one of the pancakes Kikki placed before him.

"Em," Ted protested. "I don't know the first thing about cooking. And all that French food – it's so heavy on the stomach. Weren't you the one who just got through telling me I was starting to get a little "pudgy?" he reminded his friend. "Do you really think eating a lot of French food would be a good idea for moi?" smiling at Em indulgently.

Pouting, Emmett implored, "Teddy…..please? I NEED these classes to help with my catering business. Don't you want your best friend to be bigger than Rachel Ray?"

"I think you're already BIGGER than Rachel Ray," Ted teased, evoking a slap of rebuke on the thigh from his friend. "Ouch!" Ted cried in mock dispute. "Sorry, Em, but it won't work. You'll just have to find another epicurean cohort," he answered sympathetically. Standing up, he announced, "Got to go – you know how my boss gets when I'm late for work, even when he's NOT in the office," he reminded the other man. Placing a hand briefly on his friend's shoulder, he said, "You'll find someone else – don't worry," he soothed. "Catch you later, Em," he replied before quickly leaving a tip and heading toward the exit. He stopped briefly to acknowledge the slender blonde man entering the diner.

"Hey, Justin," Ted greeted Brian's partner. Smiling, he added, "Glad you're here. Go cheer up Emmett for me, will you?" he asked, before he headed out the door.

Frowning a little in puzzlement, Justin searched for his tall friend, spotting him sitting rather dejectedly at the counter. "Hey, Em," he greeted the other man. "Ted said I should come and cheer you up. What's wrong?" he asked him, concerned.

"Hi, Baby," Emmett answered sadly. "Oh, nothing, really, I guess. I just had the greatest idea for Teddy and me to do, but he didn't think it was a good idea. Said he would just get fatter if he did it."

"What are you talking about?" Justin inquired; after Ted had recruited Emmett for his porn site, there was no telling what the two might do next.

"Oh, I wanted Teddy to go with me to take some French cooking lessons from Gaston Marchant at the Culinary Institute downtown," he explained. "He's going to be in town for a few weeks and I thought it would be fabulous to take lessons from the master himself," he added dreamily. "It would do wonders for my catering expertise."

Justin thought for a few seconds. "Isn't that the chef who always appears on the _Cooking Channel_?" he asked. "He always comes across as an arrogant son of a bitch to me."

Emmett nodded his head, confirming, "That's him. At least YOU know who he is. Teddy thought he was a new replacement for Zack O'Toole," he said, giggling. Suddenly Em's eyes lit up. "Wait a minute! Why don't you and I go?" he bubbled, clapping his hands. "I know you like to cook. It's perfect!" he cried. "Please?" he implored his friend. "I'll even pay for the lessons myself, just to have the company. Don't want to poison a total stranger with my cooking," he added, teasing, "I'd rather poison a friend instead."

"Oh, come on, Em, that's bullshit and you know it!" Justin stated. "You're a GREAT cook! I've never tasted anything bad you've prepared," he told his friend encouragingly. "I think it might actually be fun," Justin declared. "I enjoy cooking, but I don't know anything about French cuisine, or how to prepare it. And I've got some extra time, too, since I'm on break from classes until the fall," he announced.

"Ooh! Sounds like a plan!" Emmett cried enthusiastically. "What do you say? Can I break out my little ole Beret and sign us up?"

Justin smiled; Emmett's enthusiasm was always contagious. "I still say the man's arrogant as they come but, hey, why not? Brian's out of town until next week, so I've certainly got the time on my hands. Sounds like fun. Let's do it!" he declared, making up his mind.

"Fabuloso, Baby!" Emmett cried, giving Justin a kiss on the cheek. Swallowing a big bite of his last remaining pancake, Em jumped up. "I'll go give the school a call now – it's going to be SO much fun!" Em bubbled, running out of the diner. "Au revoir, honey!" he called as he pushed the door open and rushed out, leaving Justin shaking his head, laughing.

* * *

Justin and Emmett headed into the large main classroom of the Pittsburgh Culinary Institute promptly at 7:30 p.m. Monday evening. It was the first day of their cooking class, and Em insisted on getting there 30 minutes early to get a practice table near the front of the room. He claimed it was so they could clearly hear the instructions of Chef Marchant, but Justin suspected it might have more to do with being able to ogle secretly at the man himself from a ringside perspective. He had seen the man numerous times on his cooking show, so he didn't blame Em for wanting a closer look; you'd have to be blind not to notice that the man was hot. And that accent – he was a sucker for a French accent every time. There is just something about their accent and their passion that makes the men ooze sex appeal. It was just a shame that the man had such a high opinion of himself, Justin thought. He's good looking and he definitely knows it. _Kind of like some OTHER man I know, _Justin thought, smirking. But at least Brian came across as mainly confident, rather than being downright smug about it.

Luckily for Emmett's sake, they were able to secure a right-sided, front-row table for the class; each table was equipped with a small companion kitchen for practicing their lessons, complete with a stove, oven and double sink. Justin noticed there were 15 tables in total, three to a row. He also noticed that there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of men in the class; no doubt the word had gotten out that one of the most famous gay chefs in the entire world was right here in Pittsburgh.

"Ooh, I can't WAIT to see him!" Emmett enthused to his friend. "He can come to my apartment and mix it up with me ANYTIME!" he oozed. Justin laughed; the man was practically salivating and the guy hadn't even come out yet. _This should be a lot of fun, _he decided.

Just then, a tall, thin man rushed onstage. Clapping rapidly for attention, he said, "Please. Can I have everyone's attention? My name is Claude Depree, I am Master Chef Marchant's personal assistant. Before the chef appears, I need to make some things clear to you. Monsieur Marchant has agreed to be the cooking instructor for this class. That means he is expending his valuable time and considerable talent to hopefully impart some of his great expertise to you. That does NOT mean he will be utilizing his critical time to sign autographs. He is NOT here to pose for photographs, either. " Justin rolled his eyes as the man continued, "If you are here as a Chef Marchant _groupie_ as you call it in America, you will be sadly disappointed. If that is your goal, please spare yourself the embarrassment and do all the serious students a favor that are actually here to learn authentic French cuisine and leave NOW before he appears. Thank you," he finished, before walking off stage.

"Oh, brother," Justin muttered. "Sounds like the chef isn't the ONLY one who's full of himself," he observed.

"Maybe not," Emmett replied. "But if that chef looks half as good in person as he does on television, he can come fill me up ANYDAY," he advised, batting his eyes suggestively.

Justin shook his head, giving up, just before he noticed an official-looking, older man in a navy suit walking onto the stage. Stopping at the center microphone, he announced, "Students, welcome to the first night of Chef Marchand's French Cuisine Cooking Class. I'm Dean Stinson, and we are all delighted you are here. And I am equally delighted AND honored to introduce to you the man who has won several international accolades for his innovative interpretation of his native French cuisine. Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great excitement that I introduce to you…..Master Chef Gaston Marchant!" Smiling broadly and clapping, he motioned to his left as a brown-haired, tanned and toned man in his early 30's elegantly strutted onstage to tumultuous applause. The green-eyed, angular man was definitely striking, and he KNEW it. Rather than wearing a chef's hat and apron, he confidently chose instead to wear a casual, dark gray jacket and matching linen pants. His light gray shirt was open at the neck, from which dangled a slender, platinum chain. A Rolex watch shone from his wrist, and he wore polished, black Armani shoes.

Wearing, also, what appeared to Justin to be a painted-on smile, the man strode up to the dean and shook the other's hand somewhat stiffly. "Thank you, Dean Simpson," he politely acknowledged the older man, who tried not to appear affronted by the chef's mispronunciation of his name. "It is an honor to be here with all of you tonight," he said, sweeping his hand from right to left as he faced the students. "I hope before you all leave at the end of this class each of you will develop a great appreciation for the wonders of French cuisine," he cooed to the students, most of whom were almost swooning at the man's French accent and plastered-on smile.

Despite Justin's feeling that the man was a total fake, his friend was absolutely captivated. "Ooh, Honey, he's absolutely beautiful!" he gushed to Justin, clapping his hands furiously as the man onstage continued to talk to the students in what Justin suspiciously thought was a distinctively patronizing tone of voice. Somehow, though, none of the other students seemed to notice; they were all too busy gazing at the chef with adoring eyes. _I'm think I'm going to throw up in my eclair,_ he thought suddenly, not being able to prevent the snort that escaped his lips just as the room quieted down.

Emmett looked at him, almost with a shocked expression as if he had uttered something sacrilegious, as the chef's eyes onstage narrowed and peered over at the student who had dared to apparently mock his opening statement.

"Excuse me. Were you making a comment, Monsieur….?" All eyes were suddenly on Justin as the chef asked him the question.

Justin could feel his face flushing as he realized everyone was staring at him. Straightening up in his chair, however, he thought, _you arrogant Chef Boyardee wannabe,_ before he acknowledged the man's inquiry. "Taylor. That's T-A-Y-L-O-R in English," he advised in a loud, clear voice, annunciating his words carefully, not able to keep the sarcasm from creeping into his voice.

"Well, Monsieur TAYLOR, T-A-Y-L-O-R, you were saying?" the chef asked, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing important," Justin responded. _No ONE important, either, _he couldn't help adding to himself. The blond decided this might just be a fun diversion for the next week or so – maybe even more so than actually learning how to cook French food. He might create a new game – "How to Torment a Pompous French Chef." Seeing his friend's horrified expression, he decided for the time being, however, that he would attempt to humor Emmett and at least TRY to get along with their teacher.

Speaking of which, the heir apparent to Julia Child continued, stating haughtily, "Well, if there are no MORE interruptions," he added, pointedly glaring at Justin, "We can begin our first lesson."


	2. Chapter 2: Something's in the Air

As the chef walked over to the other side of the classroom to address the rest of the students, Justin suddenly heard someone melodramatically clearing his voice nearby; looking up, he noticed the chef's assistant, Claude, staring daggers at him; _how DARE someone mock the great Chef Marchant?_, he seemed to say. Raising one eyebrow, he abruptly shushed the blond, placing a finger up to his lips as if he were reprimanding an unruly child.

Unfortunately, Claude did not receive the reaction he had expected, because his behavior only served to strike Justin as humorous, eliciting a giggle from him, which, to the blond's credit, he tried hard to stifle with a hand over his mouth.

"Baby, WHAT are you doing?!" Em asked his friend in a stage whisper, astounded that anyone would dare to mock such an important man as Chef Marchant.

"Sorry, Em," Justin replied, his attempt at trying to be contrite not quite coming off as believable to his flamboyant companion. "I couldn't help it. The man's arrogant and condescending. Can't you see that?"

"He's a world-class chef, Baby," Em protested. "Not to mention some yummy eye candy, too. Come on, Honey, play nice, please?" he pleaded. "I can learn a lot from this man," he added.

"Yeah," Justin agreed with him, "You can learn how to be a conceited jackass." Looking at Emmett's pleading, puppy-dog eyes, however, Justin relented. "Okay, I'll TRY to be good," he promised. "At least for now," he muttered softly, out of range of Emmett's hearing.

Clapping a few times for attention, Chef Marchant began to address the audience. "Now, class, I am sure you all represent different levels of competency in French cooking," he instructed smoothly, his soft French accent continuing to elicit "oohs" and "ahs" from most of the students. Justin couldn't help rolling his eyes again at the others who were acting like a bunch of love-struck groupies, including his friend who listened enraptured at the chef's every word. Of course, it wouldn't have anything to do with the chef's expensive, tight pants which surrounded an admittedly well-endowed package. _Matches the size of his ego,_ Justin smirked silently. "So we shall begin with a simple recipe that all of you can try as I demonstrate the proper technique – _Coq au Vin_. For those of you who are unversed in French, that literally translates to _cock of the wine,_ since the original recipe called for a rooster," the chef revealed with a patronizing smile. "But we shall refer to it instead as _chicken cooked in wine_." _Yeah,_ Justin thought, _wouldn't want to use big words for us peasants here. Naturally, the man would find a recipe with cock in it._

"Before you observe my demonstration, the first order of business is to turn on the larger burner of your cook top and preset it to medium. Class?" Marchant again clapped his hands and his eyes swept across the room as he expectantly waited for everyone to follow his first set of orders.

"Quick!" Justin cried to Em. "March over there and preset the burner before he has a tizzy fit!" he joked. Em complied, but not before he flashed an incredulous look at his friend's continuing impertinence.

"Now, class, you should all have a two-pound chicken in your refrigerator. The first order of business while the burner is heating up is to take your chicken out and, using the large serrated butcher knife, cut your bird up into pieces." The chef placed his whole chicken on the marble butcher block, and holding it securely with one hand, he began to cut off the legs and wings, adeptly separating them from the rest of the body.

"You may want to have one student hold the chicken down while the other one cuts it into pieces," he advised, as he looked out at the group to observe their progress. He began at the opposite side of the room, nodding in acknowledgement at each pair's technique and stopping occasionally to offer guidance to those students who were struggling to carry out his first set of instructions.

Glancing over at the last pair of students, he observed the same blond man as before – _what was the name? Ah, yes, Taylor_ – utilizing his chicken for a different endeavor, oblivious to his approach. His taller friend seemed horrified as the man who had dared to ridicule Marchant earlier was apparently trying to teach his bird to dance. The plucked fryer was being held upright by his two wings, while the bird's legs were thrashing out from under it as if doing the _cancan_. "See, Em?" the blond was saying to his friend. "Our buddy is a natural at the chicken dance," he explained, laughing at his own joke.

"Monsieur Taylor!" the chef loudly addressed the blond troublemaker, who visibly started at the unexpectedly close salutation; Emmett, also, jumped back in alarm as he suddenly realized the object of his adoration was an elbow's length away. "Would you please NOT play with the food?" he asked, clearly irritated, his French accent dramatically pronounced as he sighed in exasperation. "The rest of the class is waiting," he added, eyebrows narrowing in aggravation as a scowl appeared on his face.

"Uh, yes, sir, uh, yes, Chef, sir," Emmett stammered, glaring at his friend now. Muttering under his breath, Emmett addressed his mischievous friend. "Would you PLEASE just cut up the damn chicken?!" Justin had the grace to look at least somewhat embarrassed as he cut up the chicken in a surprisingly adroit fashion as Marchant watched. _This man apparently knows SOMETHING about cooking, _the chef decided. _What a shame he doesn't know as much about his manners._

Finally satisfied that the first part of his lesson was carried out, the chef moved on to the next part of the recipe. "All right, class. Due to time constraints, I have taken the liberty of placing the rest of the recipe's ingredients for our dish on the counter in front of each group. You now need to take the 12 baby onions and cook them over medium heat in two tablespoons of the cooking oil and one tablespoon of the butter until they are tender. You will then add the chicken and cook it until it is browned on both sides. Please follow along with me as I demonstrate," he instructed. "I have confidence you can all perform this next part of your task capably," he added, unable to completely disguise his somewhat condescending tone of voice as he made a concerted effort to stare at Justin particularly before he poured the oil and butter into the skillet and began to cook the onions.

Justin remained quiet for the next few minutes, afraid he had upset Emmett with his antics. The chef was just so damn patronizing, though, he thought. _I have confidence you can all perform this next part of your task capably_, he mocked the arrogant man silently in a sing-song voice. Glancing over at his silent friend, who appeared to be brooding now, he whispered aloud, "I'm sorry if I made you mad, Em," invoking a small, indifferent shrug from his friend. He added in explanation, "I know you really admire the guy. But he's so condescending and smug!" he maintained. "Surely you see that, don't you?" he implored.

Emmett didn't say anything for a few seconds. Finally, he turned his head and replied, "Baby, I think you're just not giving the man a fair shot," he countered. "I don't happen to agree that he's smug, I think he's just confident in his abilities. You're not helping by not paying attention and ignoring his instructions. And no matter what YOU may think, surely you agree he's damn hot. Can't you at least behave yourself long enough for me to enjoy a little window shopping?" he asked his friend beseechingly, cocking his head to the side as he waited for an answer.

Justin sighed, trying to weigh his opinion of their instructor with his need to placate his friend. "I'll try, Em. I'm NOT promising anything if the man continues to be a prick, but I'll try – for YOU," he added, smiling, relieved that he at last received a smile from his friend in return. "Okay," Em responded. "I guess that will have to be enough."

"Has everyone browned their meat?" the chef asked the group, waiting for an affirmative nod. "Good," he answered. "Now you need to salt and pepper the meat to taste, and then add in the herbs, garlic, and red wine." He added as an afterthought, "Of course, the wine you are using cannot compare to the full-bodied red wines from my native country, but it would be a waste to use such an expensive libation on an amateur endeavor, don't you agree?"

Justin bit his lip to keep the retort from leaving his mouth. _I'm surprised this man could be bothered with us yokels here_, he thought, frowning slightly. Fortunately for him, neither Em or the chef noticed his disdain this time.

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen," Marchant continued. "If everyone has finished placing the last ingredients in the pan, you need to turn down the heat to low and simmer the chicken covered for an hour. Does everyone have their lids on? We wouldn't want the chicken to dry out now, would we, especially with the cheap wine we are using, yes?" he asked the group. "While the chicken is simmering, it is time for us to slice the mushrooms into THICK slices and cook them in a separate pan in one tablespoon of the butter. Quickly, class! The mushrooms have to be combined with the chicken while it is simmering!" he stressed, gesturing his hands in emphasis.

Justin somehow succeeded in being on his best behavior for the next few minutes of their class, assisting Emmett in cutting up the mushrooms as instructed and keeping an eye on the simmering chicken while Em finished sautéing the mushrooms in the butter, scraping the slices into the larger dish.

He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the chef was once again wandering around the classroom, observing each group's progress. Again, the man ultimately wound up at his and Emmett's table last. As the chef moved closer to watch them, Emmett was noticeably nervous at the thought of being up close and personal with the arrogant, but nonetheless dastardly handsome Frenchman.

"Pardon me," the chef addressed Emmett. "I remember your miscreant friend's name WELL," he explained, receiving a fake, haughty smile from Justin in return, "but I did not catch yours."

"Uh," Emmett stammered, totally nonplussed in the other man's presence, a reaction that was not totally lost on Justin, who rolled his eyes. "Uh," Emmett again began, before Justin jabbed him in the side to try and get his friend to come out of his comatose state. "Emmett," the man finally managed to verbalize. "Emmett Hon…..Honeycutt," he finally managed.

"I see," the French man responded coolly. "Well, carry on, Monsieur Honeycutt," he instructed, before ignoring Justin and returning to his place on stage.

"Oh, my god!" Emmett suddenly blurted out. "He's divine!" he cried. "And that accent!" he swooned.

"Oh, brother," Justin muttered again. "Em. Em? Snap out of it!" he sternly advised, as the "great" chef began to impart his next part of the recipe instructions. Em continued to exist in his dream state, however, while he imagined how life would be as the traveling companion of France's greatest contemporary chef.

"For the last part of the recipe, you will need to combine a tablespoon of the flour with just a small part of the broth to thicken the sauce. Please take out the proper measurement of your flour and proceed with this final part of the recipe," he intoned in a bored voice.

Justin picked up the bag of flour, preparing to scoop up a tablespoon of the dry ingredient, when he looked over at Emmett, who still appeared to be in a virtual fog after his close brush with greatness. The absurdity of the entire situation suddenly overtook him, preventing him from exercising normal common sense, as he reached in with his bare hand instead and scooped out a handful of the flour. Turning toward his friend, he threw the entire handful playfully at the taller man, producing a modicum return of consciousness when Emmett sputtered as he choked on the powdery, dry foodstuff.

"What did you do THAT for!" he demanded, as Justin grinned at him broadly, the other man now covered in flour and looking suspiciously like a real life version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

"Oh, Em," he answered, laughing, "If you could only see yourself right now!"

Em's scowl was only momentary before he smiled wickedly at Justin and said, "Yeah, probably the same way YOU'RE going to look!" before he reached into the bag of flour and returned the favor, evoking a shriek from his friend as flour coated his face and blond hair. Seconds elapsed before an all-out flour war began between the two, white powder flying everywhere.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! WHAT is the meaning of this?!" Marchant shouted at them. "_Mon Dieu_!" Clapping his hands and now stomping his feet, he finally obtained the attention of the pair below him. "I will have ORDER in this room!" he insisted, his face contorted in annoyance.

Two pairs of flour-coated eyelashes sheepishly looked up at the exasperated chef, as the man warned them, "If this behavior continues, you will be dismissed from my class. Do you UNDERSTAND?" he asked them pointedly. "Now clean up your mess and turn off your burners!" he demanded, now looking at the rest of the class to signify their first night was coming to an end. "And the rest of you – you may take your results home with you in the carryout containers located under the counter. The soiled dishes need to be placed in the dishwasher at the side of the room," he commanded. "I will expect each of you here tomorrow promptly at 7:00 p.m. At least those of you who are here to LEARN," he concluded, glaring directly at the two friends still caked in white and now sweeping up a bag's worth of flour. "This class is finished for the night," Marchant announced, shaking his head and walking firmly off the stage toward his assistant, muttering intelligible words under his breath.

"Well, I'd say that was a memorable first class," Justin observed dryly, as he licked some flour off his lips. "I can't wait for Day 2 of _Tormenting the Pompous French Chef_, can you?" he asked his friend.

Emmett sighed. "Well, Baby, let's just say I don't think we'll be vying for who gets to be the teacher's pet," Em answered. "Let's hope tomorrow's recipe calls for more _civilized_ ingredients."

"Now, Em, what fun would that be?" Justin asked impishly, as he placed an arm around the other's man shoulder to accompany him out the door.


	3. Chapter 3: Showdown

Perhaps against his best judgment, Em agreed to return to Chef Marchant's class for their second lesson of the week; he tried to tell himself it had nothing to do with the extremely hot chef with the sexy French accent that was conducting the course. Taking their customary places at their table, Em leaned over to his friend to ask, "I wonder what we'll be making tonight? And Baby, please tell me that mischief isn't going to be the first course on the menu."

"Who, me?" Justin responded innocently. "Why would you think that?"

"Oh, maybe it has something to do with yesterday's lesson….you know, the one with the chicken dance and the flour war?"

Grinning openly now, Justin said, "Come on, Em. You have to admit it was _fun._ I haven't had THIS much fun since Brian put that E in Lindsey's punch at the party for her parents. Lighten up a little," he urged the taller man.

"Justin! You know I can party down with the best of them….but I want to learn Chef Marchant's techniques! It'll help me so much with my catering. Can't you try and be on your best behavior….please?" he pleaded, slate blue eyes beseeching.

"Oh, fuck, he's really got you snookered," Justin teased accusingly. "Must be the big cock that matches his big _ego _– it CERTAINLY can't be the guy's _charm_."

"Well, it's probably just due to a cultural difference or something," Em countered in defense.

"Uh, huh. Somehow I think the word "asshole" means the same thing in English AND French."

Smiling a little awkwardly, Em didn't get a chance to respond, before the object of their discussion strode into the classroom at precisely 6:58 p.m. Tonight, the chef was dressed impeccably in a dark blue, long-sleeved cashmere sweater and dark navy pinstripe pants that were perfectly tailored to accentuate his fairly impressive cock. The man oozed confidence, sure of his looks as well as the effect he was having on at least MOST of the students in attendance as a hush fell over the room while he entered.

Smiling indulgently at the students raptly peering at him, he said smoothly, "Good Evening, Class," in his sexist French-accented tenor voice. "Are we ready for our next lesson?" he asked, producing a collective sigh from the majority of the awe-struck students in the room.

Clapping his hands to get everyone's attention, he continued, "Listen up, Students! We must start on time tonight to make sure our recipe is finished before the end of class." As the students quieted down sufficiently, he continued, "Tonight I will be demonstrating the preparation of a classic dish with a little twist. We will be making a _Dark Chocolate Soufflé. _I need for you to pre-set your oven to 375⁰," he instructed them.

"Ooh – dessert!" Em clapped enthusiastically, while Justin smiled, trying to think of a proper way to commemorate Day 2 of _Tormenting the French Chef_. _At least we'll get to eat something with chocolate in it_, the blond thought. Frowning a little, though, he said quietly to Em, "I heard those things can be hard to make."

"Don't worry, Baby," Emmett assured his friend. "I'm sure Gaston can guide us through the correct way to make them."

_"Gaston, _huh?" Justin observed. "I didn't realize you and _Pepe Le Pew_ were on a first-name basis now."

Before Emmett had an opportunity to respond, the unexpected clearing of a throat nearby roused both of them from their conversation. "Is there a problem down there, Monsieur Taylor?" Marchant asked in a clipped, irritated voice. The chef actually appeared to smile arrogantly as he looked at the blond staring back at him and thought, l_et's see how smug you look when you find out the results of my little ingredient substitution_.

Looking up at the aggravated master chef, Justin replied easily, "No, no problem, Pep….._Chef Marchant._ We were just waiting for your latest epicurean words of wisdom."

"I see. Perhaps if the two of you did not try to talk over my _words of wisdom_, the rest of the class could also participate, yes?"

"I am SO sorry, Chef," Emmett replied sincerely, subtly elbowing Justin in the ribs at the same time. "Hey!" the blond whispered, scowling, before he decided it might be beneficial to shut up for the time being before Emmett injured some other more _important_ part of his anatomy.

"As I was saying, Class, before I was _interrupted,_" Marchant continued, as he walked back toward the center of the stage, not appearing to give the insolent blonde another thought. Speaking from a small microphone clipped to his chest, he announced, "We will be preparing a dark chocolate soufflé this evening, so it is important you follow my instructions precisely, as this dish can be quite temperamental if not handled properly."

"Yeah, tell me about," Justin muttered under his breath.

"Now, Class, as with last night, to save time with preparation, the ingredients you will need for the soufflé have been preassembled for you. The first step is to take your stick of butter and generously coat the soufflé dish located directly under the cabinet. Please proceed with this step as I do the same," he instructed, taking his dish and, with long, toned hands encased in latex gloves, he dipped his fingers in the butter and thoroughly coated the dish on all sides.

"Hmmph!" Justin huffed. "He gets to prevent dishpan hands while we wind up with Parkay between our fingernails," noticing that none of the students were given any gloves like Marchant was wearing. He mockingly sing-songed, "I simply can't have my long, manicured hands touching any oily stuff, you understand, unless it's some expensive massage oil shit or maybe hair gel to keep my naturally wavy locks in place, oui?" Justin pantomimed, giggling as he brushed his hair back melodramatically, exclaiming, "Not a hair out of place."

Emmett scolded his friend softly, whispering, "You said you'd behave," he reminded the younger man, but he couldn't help smiling a little at the other man's playfulness, despite his wish to try and not annoy their instructor.

"Now, class, if you have adequately buttered your dish, it is time to melt 3 additional tablespoons of the butter in _medium heat _in the _2-quart saucepan._ Does everyone know what the saucepan looks like?" he inquired in a patronizing voice.

"Does this guy think he's teaching a fucking kindergarten?" Justin growled in a low voice. "_Does everyone know what the saucepan looks like?" _Justin parroted to himself. "Maybe a pan that you melt sauce in?" he said sarcastically, as he watched Emmett swirling the butter around with a wooden spoon in the pan while it quickly melted.

"Now, class, once the butter is COMPLETELY melted, you need to place the 3 tablespoons of flour in the pan, stirring it in until it is smooth and bubbly." Emmett watched apprehensively as Justin picked up the small bowl of flour, waiting to see what his friend would do with it – hand it to him or fling it at him in an effort to resume their "war" from the night before. He was relieved to see that the younger man was actually behaving himself as he simply handed it to Emmett, an innocent look on his face. _Maybe a little TOO innocent,_ he thought warily.

"Okay, class…..now that the butter has melted, take your milk and pour it into the pan," the chef stated, as he deftly poured the cup of milk into the saucepan. Keep stirring the pan so it doesn't burn or stick," he admonished them. "The sauce should boil and thicken in about two minutes. Once that occurs, take the pan off the burner to remove it from the heat."

"Baby, can you stir for me? My hand's getting a harder workout than when I used to jerk off for Ted's website," Emmett announced, handing the wooden spoon to Justin to take over for him. Giggling, Justin obediently dipped the spoon back into the pan, incanting softly to himself, "Bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble. Justin needs a Jim Beam double," as he continually stirred the pan for the next couple of minutes.

"Everybody with me?" Marchant inquired, looking out over the class to make sure everyone was finished with the last step. "Okay. Now you need to stir in the chopped dark chocolate until it is completely smooth." Clapping, he urged them, "Quickly! While the mixture is still warm!"

"Chop! Chop, Em! Put that chocolate in quickly!" Justin whispered urgently to his friend, speaking with a distinct, overly-accented French voice. Emmett smacked his friend on the arm as he quickly scraped the bowl of dark chocolate into the saucepan as Justin rapidly stirred it into the mixture.

"Now, Class – once the chocolate is smooth, mix in the egg yolks and rum until they are completely mixed, blended and smooth."

"NOW we're getting to the GOOD ingredients," Justin replied, stopping to take a quick swig of the rum before pouring a little of it into the pan as he passed it to Em, who to his surprise, unexpectedly joined him. "What the hell," Em explained, shrugging his shoulders.

"Monsieur Taylor!" Marchant instantly called out to the pair, causing Emmett to almost drop the bottle. "WHAT do you think you're doing?" the man asked, hands on his slim hips as he glared especially at the blond. He noticed for the first time that the pair were wearing aprons they had apparently brought with them. The taller man's brown one read, _Some Things are Better Rich – Coffee, Chocolate, Men,_ while he observed Taylor's royal blue apron was emblazoned with the motto, S_erve it Up Hot – Grill Naked._

"The rum is NOT for consumption!" he reprimanded the pair, paying particular attention to the blond.

"We were just drinking a toast to your superiority," Justin replied, as he lofted the bottle in a token tribute before taking one more swig; he could hear several other students issuing a collective gasp at his boldness. "Besides, I'm sure the rum is as cheap as the wine we used last night," he added. "Wouldn't want to waste any of the good stuff on us heathens."

Voice dripping with disapproval, the chef replied, "Well, we can drink a toast to your _arrogance_ later."

_That would certainly fit, _Justin thought dryly.

"Now, if we can PLEASE proceed with the soufflé?" he asked, receiving a fake smile and sweep of the hand from Justin in reply.

"Okay, class…Now this part may be difficult for those of you who are amateurs….You must place your egg whites with the cream of tartar on HIGH speed in the mixer provided to you. You want to get the egg whites foamy. Once that occurs, you must slowly fold in the sugar until short, stiff, and moist, wet peaks form."

At the chef's last words, Justin's libido couldn't help going into overdrive as he thought of someone ELSE'S "short, stiff, and moist wet peaks" standing at attention while he licked and sucked them. _Brian, where ARE you when I NEED you?_ he complained silently, as Emmett took over with the next part of the chef's instructions.

"Now, Class, take your flexible spatula, take a third of the chocolate sauce and fold it into the egg whites until they are well-blended." Demonstrating to the class, Marchant adroitly flipped the mixture over and into the chocolate sauce. "Then you do the same to other two-thirds of the sauce."

"Sweetie, can you pass me the spatula?" Em asked his friend, holding out his hand.

"Sure thing, Em," Justin responded, not being able to help giving Em a quick slap on one of his butt cheeks before handing him the spatula. Fortunately, this time the chef didn't notice his latest escapade, even when Em reacted by emitting a short yelp.

"Listen up, Class!" The chef urged. "We're ready to place the mixture into your baking dish. However, to make the soufflé look impressive, you only want to fill the dish ¾ of the way full. Now CAREFULLY place your mixture into the dish." He looked out over the tables, nodding in satisfaction that everyone was progressing now at the same pace. He surprisingly noted that even his pair of juvenile delinquents was following along with the rest of the students. _What a shame all that effort will be for naught, _he thought to himself smugly. _Amazing what a difference there is between all-purpose and self-rising flour._

Aloud, he continued, "Okay. Now everyone set your timer for precisely 20 minutes. You do not want to over bake your dish," he cautioned them. "You will need to keep an eye on them, so make sure you turn the oven light on so you can monitor them."

He turned, walking to the side of the stage where the steps were located to enter the lower level in a pretense of personally observing each group's success so far. Starting at the opposite end of Justin and Emmett's table, he pretended to display an interest in each pair's progress; in reality, however, Marchant was finding the whole experience boring and tedious. _The ONLY good thing about this fucking class so far is the week's worth of easy money for putting up with these simpletons, _he thought, as he accepted the unadorned devotion of the men and women in the class, a condescending smile plastered on his face.

He finally arrived at Taylor's and Honeycutt's table, noticing the same, nervous but excited expression on the taller man's face he had come to expect from all of the other admirers he constantly encountered. He noticed to his chagrin, however, that the younger blond was not buying into any kind of the customary idol worship he had always enjoyed; instead, the man was staring at him almost challengingly, a look of stubbornness on his face. Now that he could observe Taylor more closely, he was struck by the distinct, unusual color of his blue eyes and the full lips that hd been constantly challenging him; he noticed how the soft, blond hair positively shone in the glow of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Shaking his head slightly to try and wipe those thoughts from his head, he turned instead to the taller brunet, who was continuing to stare at him enraptured. Conjuring up his softest, most seductive French accent, the chef inquired politely, "And how did your dish turn out, Monsieur Honeycutt?"

Emmett could initially only eke out an unintelligible "huh?" before Justin nudged him in the side to try and jar him from his stupor. "Oh! Just fine," he finally said, smiling dreamily at the chef while Justin rolled his eyes in disgust; the action was not lost on the chef, who nonetheless tried to pretend he hadn't noticed. He peered, instead, at the pair's end result and commented, "It looks acceptable so far," before turning to walk back onto the stage and speak to the entire class.

"Now, Students, place your dish directly on the MIDDLE rack of the oven and set your timer at precisely 20 minutes. And don't forget to watch your dish closely when it gets toward the end of the baking time," he warned them.

Justin and Emmett sat on the tall classroom stools as they waited for their dish to bake. "At least we look cleaner than we looked last night," Em observed, smiling at his friend. "But you're still not playing very nice, Baby" he scolded his friend, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows.

Justin shrugged. "I tried, Em, really," he maintained, receiving a somewhat skeptical look from the brunet. "But, I'm sorry – despite what you think, I STILL say he's an arrogant prick who is so full of himself, I don't think even DYNAMITE would take care of his fucking ego problem," he joked to his friend. "But, hey, at least we get to take CHOCOLATE home with us," Justin stated, eyes lighting up as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"Yeah," Emmett agreed, pointing to his apron. "RICH chocolate," he pointed out, receiving a warm smile from his friend.

"Speaking of which, looks like our soufflé should be almost done," he noticed, reading the timer which showed two minutes remaining. "Can you take a look and see how it's going?" he asked the other man, who was sitting closer to the oven.

"Sure thing, Honey, I'm ready for some SERIOUS chocolate." Emmett leaned over to see how the dish was doing, and frowned. "Uh, Baby, something doesn't quite look right here."

"What do you mean?"

"It looks kind of…..flat. Flat and kind of black."

"Flat? Black?" Justin asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, flat and black, as in the proverbial record album," Em observed, peering closely into the oven.

"No way!" Justin cried. "We followed the recipe exactly," he argued.

"Well, I may not be a master French chef, but I think I know a burnt dish when I SMELL one," Em replied. "Uh, not that I ever burn any of my OWN recipes, you understand," he added.

Justin smiled slightly. "Of course not……let me see," he asked, as Em moved aside so his friend could look through the glass door at their noticeably shrunken, black glob that looked remarkably like a miniature version of the remains of an erupted volcano.

"Oh, no," Justin wailed. "What the fuck do you think happened?" he asked Em, as the blond used a nearby potholder to place the ruined dessert onto the adjacent counter.

"I know EXACTLY what happened," Justin overheard Marchant answering smugly from the stage instead, as the chef slowly walked toward them. "Someone OBVIOUSLY didn't follow instructions properly."

Justin felt everyone's eyes on them as his blood pressure started to rise. _This man is unbelievable._

As the man walked down the steps and approached him, Justin turned and stood face to face with the smug chef.

"As I said, _Monsieur Taylor_, someone was too busy causing mayhem to heed my instructions and prepare his dish properly," the older man stated derisively. "Too bad you are not up to the challenge."

Steely blue eyes glared at narrowed green ones as Justin walked even closer to the other man, growling, "You have GOT to be the most pompous, condescending, arrogant, and conceited snob I have EVER met. And, furthermore, you know what, Pepe? You can just fucking take my burnt out, flat-as-a-pancake chocolate soufflé and stick it where the SUN DON'T SHINE!" Emmett clapped a hand to his mouth, stunned, as his friend promptly proceeded to pick up the baking dish with their not-so-stellar soufflé in it and, quickly inverting it, firmly placed it down on the chef's head.

The chef sputtered in shock as melted chocolate quickly rained down on his face; Justin abruptly turned around and headed toward the exit. "Well?" he asked Emmett, who was still standing there horrified. "Are you coming or not?" he asked his friend, who finally hurried after him as he decided it was better to get the hell out of there rather than face the chef's wrath, at least once the man recovered.

Marchant's assistant, Claude, came rushing down soon afterward with several wet towels clenched in his hands. "Chef! Are you all right?" he asked the other man, concerned, trying furiously to help wipe the chocolate off the other man's face. "The heresy and insubordination! You should sue that man!" he advised his superior angrily.

As the other students averted their eyes and rushed to stack their soiled dishes in the dishwasher, placing their finished product into carryout containers, Marchant shocked his assistant by actually beginning to laugh rather than being incensed.

"Monsieur?" The other man inquired, becoming alarmed at the other man's totally bizarre behavior. "Are you hurt?"

Still laughing as he continued to wipe off the chocolate from his face, the man finally replied, " Only my dignity. I'm fine, Claude. A little sticky, but fine."

"Monsieur?" Claude again asked, totally bewildered by the chef's behavior after he was subjected to an out-and -out assault at the hands of the impertinent student.

"I'm all right," the man repeated. "Actually, it's been a LONG time since another man stood up to me. That Taylor has, how do the Americans say it? Balls." For not the first time, Marchant thought about the student who had tormented him from the m o m e n t he had walked into his classroom . This time, though, his thoughts were focused on what he found to be more _pleasant_ aspects of the other man. _I must find out what makes you tick, Monsieur Taylor. I have underestimated you._

Aloud to his assistant, he instructed him, "Claude – I am going to go clean up. In the meantime, I want you to do something for me."

"Yes, Chef – what do you want me to do?"

"Go back to my apartment and bring me a clean set of clothes. But before you go, find for me the personnel file on Monsieur Taylor."


	4. Chapter 4: The Chef Cooks Up a Plan

_Liberty Diner, Wednesday morning_

Ted swirled his spoon in his coffee cup, looking up as his friend approached. "Em! Haven't seen you for a couple of days – how's the cooking class going?"

Emmett slid into the booth across from his friend, turning his cup over as Kikki approached with the coffee pot. As she took his order and left, Em looked over at his friend, a small smile on his face.

"Let's just say that it's been full of surprises," he said somewhat mysteriously.

"C'mon, Em – Dish! Pun intended," he said, laughing a little. "What I REALLY want to know about isn't the class – I want to know about that sexy French CHEF you've been raving about. Is he as "to die for" as you thought?"

"Well, he's even MORE delicious in person," Em verified readily. "And that sexy French accent – whew! He could creme my brulee any day!" he exclaimed, melodramatically wiping the back of one hand across his forehead before his expression sobered. "But I think our days of wine and roses are over."

"Huh? You're mean you're not going back? Why in the world NOT? That class was all you talked about for the past week! What happened?" Ted was shocked.

"Well, it seems our baby and the great Gaston didn't see eye to eye on cooking techniques."

"Justin? He gets along with EVERYBODY. I don't understand."

"Well, Gaston is very sure of himself, and very confident," Emmett reported, as he tried to explain to the other man. "Justin thought he came across as just a little TOO confident. Actually, I think the exact words he used, among others, were pompous, conceited, arrogant and condescending, not necessarily in that order, though. Let's just say one unfortunate event led to another last night, and faster than you could say _Crepes Suzette, _our own little tart had smashed a burnt chocolate soufflé on top of Gaston's head."

"What?!" Ted laughed. "Oh, I wish I could have SEEN that! Did he REALLY do that?"

"Oh, he DID it, all right," Em confirmed. "He even has a pet nickname for him – _Pepe LePew."_

Ted chortled. "Well, Justin's never been one to stand on ceremony if he feels there's been some type of injustice done," he observed. "I still wish I could have seen it, though. That chef must have been LIVID."

"I'm not sure WHAT his reaction was after that, because we didn't stick around too long to find out. Melted chocolate streaming down his face was not a pretty sight."

"Oh, boy. I would have loved to have seen that."

"Well, I'm afraid all we have to show for our efforts are a little leftover chicken cooked in wine and a burnt dessert. I was hoping we'd at least get a little inspiration from him. Looks like I'm on my own if I want to discover the great secrets to cooking French cuisine," Em lamented.

"Well, here comes your little spitfire now," Ted commented, as he looked up and observed Justin walking in the door. Motioning for the blond to join them, the younger man appeared a little hesitant as he nodded an acknowledgment to both men and took a seat next to Ted.

"Hey, Guys," Justin greeted them softly, avoiding looking directly at Emmett.

"Hey, Baby," Em replied congenially, peering at his friend closely. "Something wrong?"

Justin finally raised his eyes and slightly scrunched up his nose. "I'm surprised you're even speaking to me this morning."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, after my little _stunt _last night." Looking at his friend embarrassed, he continued. "I'm sorry, Em, for fucking everything up. I know how much you were looking forward to taking Marchant's class, and I totally screwed things up for you. I should have just let it all roll off my back instead of letting it get to me. He is just so DAMN conceited, though! Yeah, the guy knows how to cook and looks hot. But he KNOWS it. And he wants everyone ELSE to know it, too."

Em smiled wistfully. "Well, I guess it's no surprise that I was actually enjoying looking at the chef more than paying attention to the recipes. As a matter of fact, take a look at what's in the _Life _section of the paper this morning," he reported to the younger man. "Here's the man you hold in such high esteem, and in glorious color, to boot," he added, sighing a little. Em reached down to pull out a copy of the morning paper from the tote bag he carried and handed the paper to his friend.

"Yeah, that's our _Pepe_ all right," Justin deadpanned, eliciting a chuckle from Ted as he looked down at what Justin was studying. The blond handed the paper to Ted so he could see the photo prominently displayed on the front page of the leisure section.

"Wow, Em, I can see why you and legions of adoring fans are drawn to the man, though," Ted observed. "He's a real hottie. Talk about your hot-crossed buns!"

As Justin rolled his eyes, Ted skimmed over the article. "Hmmm. Says he's a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu and was named Chef of the Year recently by the French Culinary Press. It also says he's going to be signing copies of the book he just authored down the street at the Liberty bookstore this afternoon. Maybe you've got a shot at seeing him again….and without chocolate running down his face. I might just have to walk down there myself to see him in the flesh. Want to come with me?" he asked Em.

Em's eyes lit up momentarily before a shadow of doubt crossed them. "I don't know. He's probably pretty pissed off after what happened last night. Sorry, Baby, I don't blame you," Em added, as he noticed Justin's face reddening in embarrassment. "Really. I guess he kind of had it coming. But he sure is one fine piece of eye candy." After a few seconds, he reconsidered. "Well, maybe I could worship him from afar and YOU can get a copy of the book for me."

Ted smiled. "Sure, Em. If you want me to."

Em's eyes lit up. "What time did it say he was going to be there?"

"Well, looks like they'll be starting to hand out numbers at 3:00 p.m. He's scheduled to start signing at 4:00. Want to get there around 3:00, then?"

Em clapped his hands briefly. "Yay! Thanks, Teddy." Looking at Justin, he asked, "I'm assuming you're not interested in going?"

"Are you kidding? And run the risk of having him report me to the culinary police?" he snorted. "I don't think so, Em. Thanks anyway, but I've had my share of up-close-and-personal with Mr. Perfect. Besides, I've got a class at 1:00. I'll leave the hero worship up to you, if that's okay," he added, smiling at his friend, relieved that Emmett wasn't upset with him.

Ted looked at his watch. "Yeah, I'd better go - I've got this absolute TYRANT for a boss who seems to have long-range vision when I'm late for work, even if he's out of state," he retorted, receiving a knowing laugh from the "tyrant's" partner. As he stood up, Emmett did as well, explaining, "I'd better get going, too, Baby. Gotta be at Torso soon."

"Bye, Guys." Justin waved at the two friends as they walked out together, deciding he was going to enjoy a rare opportunity to leisurely indulge in a zillion's worth of carbs while his health-conscious partner was out of town.

* * *

"Mr. Perfect" at that moment was partaking of his own breakfast in his luxury suite at the Richwood Townhouse Complex, carefully studying the contents of one of his student's personnel folders. "So, Monsieur Taylor, you are an art student at the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts," he commented to himself, as he skimmed over the information in front of him. Marchant had taken the time to read up on Pittsburgh before he had accepted the temporary position as a cooking teacher, and was, therefore, familiar with the school that had a reputation for being a very competitive, as well as an extremely prestigious, institution. He realized this young man must not only be an attractive work of art himself, but also an intelligent and creative one as well. His opinion of the outspoken, frank blond rose quickly as he continued to scan the somewhat limited information on his application.

_Well, I know where you live and where you attend school, but that doesn't really tell me what motivates you. Or what you do for pleasure._ Perhaps there was another way to find that out. He reached over to pick up the other folder he had asked his assistant, Claude, to deliver to him – the folder listing the information for Taylor's friend and fellow student, Emmett Honeycutt. He knew the man was infatuated with him. Perhaps there was another way to find out more about what motivates the fiery little artist.

He wrote down some of Honeycutt's information on a small notepad. Smiling as he drank his last bit of espresso, the chef reached for his Armani overcoat and phoned for his chauffeur to meet him outside.

* * *

Emmett puttered around _Torso_ the rest of the morning, excitedly waiting for the afternoon when he and Ted would meet right outside the bookstore to have a chance to observe Gaston while he waited on his adoring fans. He was still debating whether he had enough nerve to approach the famous chef personally for an autographed book copy; after all, it wasn't him that caused all the ruckus the last two nights. Maybe Gaston would realize that Emmett was just an innocent party in the whole mess, and gracefully sign one of his books for him; hopefully he could also at least convince the man to pose for a photo with him. That way, he could always pretend to others that he and the chef were good friends. It would be suitable for a laugh or two, anyway, he thought, somewhat cynically. His thoughts were interrupted by the bell jingling over the store entrance, signifying a customer entering. It had been a pretty slow morning, being the middle of the week, so there had been few potential customers coming in.

He turned and almost fainted when he noticed the object of his fantasies walking through the door, wearing a dark chocolate brown overcoat, a skin tight black silk shirt, and black leather pants that molded to every curve and angle of the toned body. "Ah, Monsieur Honeycutt," Gaston greeted the other man smoothly in his baritone, sexy French voice. "I trust you are well?" he asked solicitously.

Emmett stood frozen to his spot in front of the cash register. "Uh, uh," was about all he could manage initially as he stared at the incredibly debonair, toned brunet standing casually in front of him; Emmett found the man's green eyes flecked with gold absolutely mesmerizing. "Oh, my God," he finally exclaimed in a rushed, excited tone. "I can't believe you're standing here in my store! Oh, my God!"

The man smiled indulgently. _This was going to be TOO easy,_ he thought. "Well, actually, my appearance here isn't by accident," he explained. "After the unfortunate events that occurred last night, I thought I should endeavor to make amends."

Emmett was startled. "Make, make amends?" he stammered, shocked.

"Yes," Gaston answered, drawing out his accent to great effect, at least judging by the other man's enchanted expression. "I felt just terrible about the misunderstanding," he purred, subtly moving closer to the other man so he was only an arm's length away. "I wanted to express my sincere regrets to both you and your friend," he added softly, displaying a contrite expression. "I realized that I may have not explained the recipe properly, and I shouldn't have been so impatient with you." Playing his trump card, he pulled out a copy of his latest book from the leather tote he was carrying. "As part of my effort to start fresh, I was hoping I could interest you and your friend in a signed copy of my newest cookbook," he advised the other man, smiling as he handed a copy to Emmett.

"Oh! Oh, this is AMAZING!" Em squealed. "My friend, Teddy, and I were already planning on attending your book signing down the street this afternoon so I could pick up a copy of your book. And now here you are! You must be psychic in addition to being a fabulous cook!"

Marchant smiled gracefully. "You are too kind," the chef answered modestly. "Please accept it as a small token of my effort to make amends. I would also like to express my regret for my behavior last night to your friend. Do you know how I might be able to contact him?" he asked innocently.

"Justin? Of course. In fact, I just saw him this morning at the Liberty diner down the street for breakfast."

Adopting a casual tone, Marchant inquired, "Do you think he would still be there?"

"Probably not," Em answered. "We saw him for breakfast a couple of hours ago, and he mentioned at the time that he had class later today. I could give him the book FOR you, if you like," Em offered helpfully, as he flipped open the cover to read the inscription Marchant had written for him. _To Emmett – one of my greatest fans – Gaston._

"That is very kind of you, Emmett," Gaston replied, pouring on his best accent. "But I feel it would only be proper and appropriate if I expressed my regret for my actions to your friend in person. Do you think I could find him at home? I DO have his address by virtue of the information all the students had to fill out in order to take my class," he explained.

Em started. "Oh, I was wondering how you knew where I worked. I forgot we had to fill that out." In answer to Marchant's inquiry, he added, "No, I don't think Justin would be home right now. He said his class was at 1:00 and it's almost that time now." He paused for a few seconds before volunteering, "He'll probably be at Babylon later tonight, though."

"Babylon?"

"Uh, yeah, it's one of the gay dance clubs here – it's just down the street."

The chef took on a nonchalant tone as he asked, "And were YOU planning on going there this evening as well?"

Emmett was flattered; was this man trying to find out if he would be there because he was interested? He suddenly made a quick decision. "Yes, of course! I go there a lot. I was planning on going tonight. It doesn't open until 10:00, though," he offered.

"I see. That will be after my cooking class tonight. I am assuming your friend will NOT be attending my class this evening?"

Emmett looked down, somewhat embarrassed. Softly, he admitted, "No. I don't think he thought it would be for the best," he answered simply.

"I understand," Marchant answered sympathetically. Seeming to come to an unexpected decision, he offered, "Perhaps I could accompany you to this Babylon and present the other copy of my book to your friend there? I would be happy to provide transportation there from your residence, of course. My limousine would be at our disposal," he offered.

"Uh, limousine?" Emmett felt like Cinderella; he was so excited about being seen in the company of this sexy, darkly-handsome man. "That, that sounds wonderful," he finally managed to say. "Justin should be there."

"Great!" Marchant stated enthusiastically. "I will be able to start over with both you AND your friend." _And hopefully get to know your friend MUCH better._ "Shall I pick up you at 9:45 then?" he asked politely.

Emmett smiled broadly, and couldn't help clapping his hands softly. "That sounds fabulous! Here's my address," he said, reaching over to jot it down on a piece of paper before Marchant reached out to grasp the other man's arm, creating a tingle all over Emmett's body.

"Not to worry, Emmett, I already have the address, remember? I will be looking forward to our evening," he acknowledged, shaking the other man's hand in a lingering touch and winking at him before he turned and walked out of the store.

Rushing around _Torso_, Emmett eagerly searched for the right piece of clothing that would hopefully impress his escort later that evening. "Wait until Teddy hears about THIS!" Emmett cried in glee. "He's going to be SO jealous!" Emmett flipped open his cell phone to call his friend with the exciting news. "I'm going to be the object of every gay boy's wrath tonight when I show up with my own little piece of French silk pie!" Excitedly scooping up a tight, translucent sleeveless silver shirt, he rushed into the fitting room to try it on. Tonight couldn't come soon enough for him.


	5. Chapter 5: How to Say Get Lost in French

"You little shit! Pick up your PHONE!" Brian muttered to himself as he waited just outside the conference center for his partner to answer his cell. "Why you have a PHONE is beyond me, because you won't ever ANSWER it!" He was about to flip the phone shut, refusing to leave an inane voicemail message, when he finally heard a voice pick up on the other end.

"Hey!" A familiar voice panted, breathlessly.

"Well, you've either just finished running a marathon, or you're in the middle of fucking someone senseless," he commented dryly.

"Neither," the blond reported. "It was raining cats and dogs outside, and I was running to get out of the fucking storm," he complained.

"You'd better NOT be dripping water all over my hardwood floor, you twat," the brunet grumbled in mock indignation.

"I ran and got a towel before I answered your call, Your Majesty," Justin teased. "I'm in the bathroom."

"By yourself?"

"Yes, smart ass, by myself. Was there a purpose for this call?"

"NOW who's the smart ass? I try to call my partner for a social call, and this is the response I get. If you're too BUSY to talk…"

"I didn't say that," Justin quickly reassured the other man. "Although I was hoping you were calling for more than a _social call,_" he purred, his voice taking on a decidedly lower tone. "What happened to some good old phone sex?"

"It's alive and well, Sunshine. But I'm only on a short break between presentations, and I think the kind of recreational activity you have in mind may take a little longer than I have time for right now. But not to worry – I anticipate a HARD day's night later. About midnight?" he asked, unable to hide the hopeful tone from sneaking into his voice.

He could almost hear Justin smile before he answered. _Fuck – I wish I could see that smile in person right now._ His partner finally answered, "I think that could be arranged, Mr. Kinney. I promised Em I would meet him and the other guys at Babylon later tonight, but I think I feel a headache coming on, oh, about 11:30 or so?"

"Yeah, a real migraine," Brian drawled seductively in his rich baritone, voice barely above a whisper now. "And I've got just the right antidote for it."

A shiver went through the blond's body as he heard his lover's voice. It still amazed him how turned on he could get just by hearing Brian on the phone; however, there was nothing like the real thing. "The best medicine I could have is some TLC in person. When are you coming home, Mr. Executive?"

"A couple more days, I'm afraid," he reported regretfully. "It'll go by fast, you'll see," he insisted.

"Not fast enough," Justin replied honestly, trying to keep the longing out of his voice, but not quite succeeding. He missed his partner terribly, but he also didn't want Brian being distracted by an overly sentimental and emotional partner. "But don't worry – Em's been entertaining me this week while you're gone."

"Oh? Just what type of _entertaining_, Sunshine?"

Justin smiled a little. For just a moment, he could have sworn he detected just a hint of unsubstantiated jealousy in the older man's voice, although Brian would be the last one to admit it. "He and I have been taking cooking lessons."

This time, Justin distinctly heard an amused chuckle from his partner. "_Cooking lessons_? What the fuck, Justin?"

"This famous French chef, Gaston Marchant, is in town briefly to teach a French cooking class at the Culinary School. Em initially tried to get Ted to take the class with him, but Ted had the common sense to back out. So Em talked me into going. Big mistake," he reported tersely.

Brian only had a few minutes before the meeting resumed, but he was intrigued. "And why is that, Sunshine? Did you toss your cookies after you were forced to eat Em's cooking?" he smirked.

"Not quite, but actually you're close. We did all right the first night with the Coq Au Vin, but we wound up burning our chocolate soufflé last night. That was before I smashed it on top of the chef's head."

Now Brian was REALLY intrigued as he did a double take. "You what?"

"I turned the soufflé dish upside and smashed it on top of Marchant's head. Or, as I call him, Pepe LePew."

Now Brian laughed out loud. "Why the fuck did you do THAT?"

"He had it coming," Justin persisted. "He's the most pompous, conceited, and arrogant jackass I've ever met. He's hot," Justin admitted, "but he's a jerk. A condescending, number-one asshole. But he's got poor Emmett fooled. I haven't seen him so interested in anybody since George died. I almost felt bad about what happened last night for Em's sake, but it couldn't be helped. The guy deserved it," he stated simply. "He needs to learn some fucking manners if he's going to try and TEACH someone else. He may know how to cook, but he sure as hell doesn't know how to get along with people."

"My little bundle of joy, spreading sunshine wherever he goes," Brian joked, still chuckling over the picture in his mind of Justin taking on the _big, bad wolf_.

"So what type of joy were you intending to spread in his class tonight?"

"No fucking way am I going back there!" he assured the brunet. "Although I was enjoying my training in _how to torment the French chef._ I think I was enjoying it more than Em, though," he admitted. "I'm afraid I'll just have to stick with good old American chicken soup and jambalaya."

Brian smiled. "Probably safer for all mankind that way," he agreed, practically hearing the stuck-out tongue of his partner over the phone. Noticing the hearing about to reconvene, Brian reluctantly added, "Gotta go, Sunshine. Don't forget to be home in time to _take your medicine_ later tonight."

"Don't worry, doctor. I'll be home right on time for your appointed rounds," Justin laughed softly.

"Later," Brian softly replied.

"Later." Justin flipped the phone shut and sighed. It was going to be a LONG two days.

* * *

Em felt like a princess, out on the town with the Crown Prince of the World. He had meticulously dressed in the new shimmering, fluid silver sleeveless shirt he had plucked from the rack at Torso, and had matched it up with some dark green, form-fitting satin pants that fitted him to a T. He had even thrown a long, furry, flowing knitted scarf around his neck to complete the look.

Of course, once the rest of the crowd at Babylon got a look at what Gaston had decided to wear, the flamboyant man could have been wearing ANY old thing by the amount of interest his companion was getting and the decided LACK of attention he was receiving in exchange. The Frenchman had clothed himself in an expensive, open-necked, long-sleeved royal blue satin shirt that hugged every toned part of his six-pack chest, and wore a pair of tight, full-grain deerskin leather pants that left no part of his most abundant attribute secret to the hundreds of men openly ogling him as they entered the club. Nevertheless, Emmett felt like a star as he acknowledged the envy of all the other men in the club who were NOT the famous chef's escort for the night.

The place, too, was packed for the night due to a special promotion being held that evening. It was the annual _Fabulous Abs_ contest, one of the most popular competitions of the year. The enormous draw of the contest was obvious by the wall-to-wall men stacked by the bar, on the catwalk, and on the dance floor.

Feigning interest in his companion, Marchant tried to be heard above the loud din in the room. "Would you care to get a drink, Emmett?" he asked the tall man.

"But of course!" Emmett replied animatedly. "Let me steer you to the right place," he shouted, taking the other man's sleeve to pull him gently toward the end of the bar that was a little less congested. Speaking to a familiar face behind the counter, he asked Tony, the bartender, for his typical libation.

"A pink Cosmo, Tony my man," he asked politely. "Gaston?"

"I think a white wine for me."

"Tony, a Cosmo for me and a white wine for Gaston," Em announced loudly, hoping everyone within earshot would notice that he and the darkly-handsome, famous man standing next to him were together. Em still couldn't believe his good luck; he had been so surprised to see the chef at Torso earlier today. He was relieved that Gaston had located him so he could express his regret over what had happened last night and he couldn't wait for Justin to see him, as well. Hopefully once Gaston had a chance to apologize to his friend, the blond would realize he had misjudged the man and would realize he wasn't the conceited, arrogant person he thought he was. In the meantime, though, Em was just enjoying basking in the spotlight as all the men within close range were standing with their mouths open, almost drooling at the sight of the stunning man accompanying him tonight.

Admitting to himself that he wanted to rub it in everyone else's faces maybe just a LITTLE bit, Emmett turned to his new-found friend and asked, "Would you care to trip the light fantastic, Gaston?"

"Pardon?"

"Oh, sorry. Would you like to dance?"

"Oh." Quickly downing a little of the wine, Marchant placed his glass down on the counter and replied, "It would be my pleasure," evoking a broad smile from his companion.

"Well, then, let's show them how it's done," Em urged, holding out his arm at an angle to guide the other man to the dance floor. Taking the proffered arm politely, Marchant hooked his arm in Em's as they elbowed their way toward the center of the dance floor, a loud, disco-type song reverberating throughout the room as voices rose from everywhere and patrons pointed out the couple now gyrating in rhythm on the hardwood surface. As the dance lights flashed and go-go boys bumped and grinded to the music, a small clearing actually developed around Em and the object of so much attention. It seemed that the word had spread throughout the club more rapidly than a brushfire, and everyone wanted to see this celebrity who had unexpected made a surprise visit to their neighborhood club. The owner of the club obliged, flashing the couple's picture on the large screens behind the catwalk, deciding to take advantage of his unanticipated good fortune. He knew the press always followed the well-known chef wherever he went, so he shrewdly decided to permit them access to his club for the evening. His decision was rewarded when he noticed flashes going off as they took pictures of the famous man and his escort for the evening. _What great publicity!_

Em was in heaven as well. He loved being the center of attention, even if it was due to his dancing companion, who in his opinion, was as good a dancer as he was a chef. Marchant moved gracefully and rhythmically to the beat, hips swinging in perfect harmony. Em raised his hands above his head, smiling broadly. He was having a great time!

As he looked over the head of his dancing partner, he noticed Justin arriving. Trying to get his friend's attention, he frantically waved until at last he saw Justin smile at him in recognition and start to walk toward him.

"Hey, Baby!" Emmett shouted at his friend. "I'm glad you could make it!"

"Hey, Em," Justin greeted the taller man, as he neared his friend.

Hearing the blond's voice nearby, Gaston tensed very briefly, then smiled. _Well, well, well. At last I get a chance to talk to you face to face – and this time you don't have a soufflé to hide behind. _Slowly turning around now to face the younger man, Gaston smiled. "Monsieur Taylor. We meet again. And I see you are _unarmed_ this time," he snickered.

Justin's look of delight at seeing his friend instantly disappeared as he noticed who Em's companion was for the evening. "You! What are YOU doing here?" he asked, shocked. He looked to his friend for an explanation.

"Uh, Baby, just listen. Gaston felt terrible about what happened last night, and he wanted to make amends." Turning to the chef for confirmation, he asked, "That's right, isn't it, Gaston?"

Gaston tried to plaster on his most sincere, apologetic smile. "But of course. What happened last night was most unfortunate. Although your aim was excellent," he added.

"It was MEANT to be," Justin growled. Shaking his head, he said, "Now if you will EXCUSE me. I think I see Ted over at the bar." He turned to go, before he felt an arm firmly grabbing his slender wrist.

"But you haven't given me an opportunity to apologize," Gaston purred, as he turned the sexy French accent up on the _high _setting. "Let me explain."

"Take your oily hands off me, Marchant!" Justin snarled. "I don't how much more clearer I can make it. Is there a language barrier here or something? You may have Em snookered but NOT me. You don't fool me for a second! I still say you're the most arrogant and conceited jackass I've ever met, and I want nothing to do with you! Now leave me the hell alone!" With that, Justin made a half-hearted attempt to acknowledge Em as being an innocent party before he stomped away toward the bar, leaving the two men standing amidst a sea of several hundred other dancers.

"Well, that went well," Emmett deadpanned. "Perhaps he needs a little more time."

Gaston smiled. _I don't give up that easily, mon chaton (English: my kitten). Or should I say hell-cat? _

Acknowledging his companion, the chef replied, "I believe you are right, my friend. Why don't we go get another drink at the bar?" he suggested.

"Why not?" Em agreed. "Maybe we can find Justin and I can try to reason with him. I'm sure once he gives you a chance to explain, he will understand you really do feel bad about what happened."

"That sounds like a sensible solution," Marchant replied smoothly, surreptitiously scanning the bar area for the fiery blond but feeling disappointed when he was not successful. As he and Emmett walked toward the bar, admirers and press following closely behind, Marchant finally noticed the blond had walked back out onto the dance floor, and was moving gracefully in time with the pounding music. As Emmett order another round of drinks for them, he had a chance to observe the artist, who was like poetry in motion as his body swayed and his hips swung in perfect time to the beat. The chef thought about what it would feel like to have the lithe body pressed up against him; he was resolved to find out exactly what it would feel like before the night was over.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Emmett asked his companion gracefully, his southern manners floating to the surface.

"Yes, immensely," the other man replied, pretending to be captivated with what his escort was saying to him while he was actually more fascinated by the show going on out on the dance floor with a particular adorable-looking blond.

"Oh, there's Teddy!" Em squealed, as he recognized his good friend at the other end of the bar. "That's one of my best friends," he explained to the chef. "Would you excuse me for just a second?" Em asked. "I want Ted to meet you. Now don't go away," he implored.

"Oh, don't worry, my friend," Marchant assured him. "I'll be right here."

Smiling at the famous man, Em hurried as fast as he could to the other end of the bar, but it was slow going with the vast crowd mingling for a chance to get drinks or dying for an opportunity to speak with the most famous celebrity to ever enter the club.

As soon as Emmett walked away, however, Gaston had other plans. His radar immediately honed in on the blond vision still dancing so fluidly out on the floor. Walking purposely toward his target, the dark-haired man finally arrived close enough to speak once again to the man who was becoming increasingly fascinating to him. Rather than talking to the man, however, he decided a more _direct_ approach might be more effective. Walking up behind the slender blond, he moved to align his body firmly against the other man's as his toned arms snaked from behind to wrap themselves possessively around the other's waist.

Justin tensed briefly as he felt a pair of arms enfold him; he certainly had had his share of men approaching him for attention over the last few years while he danced at Babylon. While he found the attention flattering, lately his only interest in anyone being that close to him was Brian; all the others simply failed to compare. He eventually realized it had to do with one simple fact: he _loved_ Brian, and that made it all the more sweeter as well as more intense. He was never going to find that euphoric feeling with anyone else.

Unbeknownst to Justin, just before he decided to abruptly end this other man's attempt at seduction, a cameraman managed to take a close-up photo of the handsome blond dancing sensually with the famous chef's arms draped across his midsection. Smiling smugly in satisfaction at his luck, the cameraman moved quickly away in hopes of securing a news outlet willing to pay big money for his photo of the famous man and his unidentified dancing partner.

Unaware of anyone commemorating their brief union, Justin turned slightly to see up close who was trying to attract his attention when he jerked himself away from the person he now recognized as the LAST man he wanted anything to do with: Marchant.

"What the FUCK do you think you're doing?!" Justin cried. "Are you out of your MIND? What part of I don't like you do you NOT understand? And I thought you were here with Emmett? You really are a son of a bitch, you know that?"

"Now, Monsieur Taylor, you haven't allowed me more than a couple of words with you tonight," Gaston purred, pouring on the French charm he was renowned and worshipped for.

"Well, that's two words TOO many," Justin retorted. "Leave me the fuck alone!" he demanded, trying once again to pull away from the other man's grasp.

"You don't really mean that, mon cheri."

"Yeah! Well, that's what YOU think. Maybe there's a language barrier here, so I'll just try a more _universal_ language." And with that, Justin drew his knee up and jabbed it into the other man's balls, causing Marchant to immediately double over in pain and curse at him in a decidedly unprofessional manner. Taking advantage of his opportunity, the blond wrenched himself free of the other's man hold and pushed his way from the crowded dance floor, now filled with astonished faces of the men who had just witnessed something unbelievable.

Emmett and Ted, also, witnessed the spectacle between their friend and Marchant. Standing together at the bar, they watched as the blond marched toward the exit and the chef limped back toward the restroom.

Too stunned to say anything at first, Em finally regained his voice. "I don't understand. Gaston told me he would wait for me here. Then when I bring you back to meet him, I look around and he's out there with Justin, who just kneed him in the balls and took off. Should I go after Gaston and see if he's all right?"

"I don't know, Em. Obviously you and Justin don't see eye to eye when it comes to this Marchant guy. Somehow, I don't think he's going to lack for attention, though."

"But…..we came together. I thought he wanted to be with me, Teddy," Em protested. But even his words sounded feeble to his own ears. Seeing Marchant returning from the restroom, as always the center of attention, he noticed the man now walking more confidently now as several men practically fawned over him while he lapped up the attention.

Shoulders sagging as the reality of the whole situation hit him, he turned to his friend and said, "You want to get out of here, Teddy? I think I've had enough for tonight."

Ted looked sympathetically at his friend. "Sure, Em, let me drive you home, okay?"

Em smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Teddy. You're a good friend."

"Come on, then…let's get out of here and leave Marchant in the hands of his adoring fans." Nodding in agreement, Emmett purposely held his head high as he walked by the man who didn't even acknowledge him this time as the two friends exited the club to go home.


	6. Chapter 6: Mix With a Little Jealousy

"Brian, that idea was brilliant," Mark Peters admitted to his rival. "The only way it would have been even more brilliant was if I had thought of it FIRST," he said ruefully.

"But then you would have gotten the client's business instead of ME," Brian boasted. "Better luck NEXT time, Peters," he added, winking. Brian and the other ad man from Chicago's _Birney & Fox_ found themselves running into each other frequently during advertising pitches to the same clients, and as a result, had established a running, but friendly, competition over who would come out victorious. And while it didn't escape Brian's notice that the other man was quite attractive, unfortunately he didn't even need to use his gaydar to determine that Peters was staunchly on the hetero side: all he had to do was listen to yet another banal story from the other man about what his toddler daughter had done since the LAST time they had met, and where he and his wife had gone on vacation during the past year. _What a waste of a perfectly handsome specimen_. _No matter, though, I've got a perfectly delicious one waiting for me at home._

Brian was glad his business trip was wrapping up, not only because he could finally head back home to Pittsburgh. He would never admit it, but he was actually more interested in being reunited with Justin. He had been gone for not even a week, but he had missed his partner terribly. He missed the warm, slender body spooned up against him in bed, and his incessant chatter about anything and everything. He missed the crystal-blue eyes that always look at him so intently, and his signature, radiant smile when he's happy. Hell, he even missed the twat's shit that always seems to be scattered all over the loft and the smell of the blond's hair after he uses that damn apricot-melon shampoo.

Smiling a little to himself, he shook hands with Peters before grabbing his briefcase and heading outside the client's office for a taxi. One quick stop by the hotel for his things and to call the airport, and he would be quickly on his way back to the only man who had ever captured his heart. He briefly thought about calling his partner to let him know his business trip was finishing a little early, but he spontaneously made the decision to keep it a surprise; no doubt, the squeal of delight and the jumping into his arms when he returned early would be worth the withholding of that information. And if he knew his partner well enough, so would the butterfly kisses and hot, passionate sex that would ensue afterward. Willing his cock to relax (amazing how just the thought of being back with his blond dynamo made his libido go into overdrive), he opened the back door of the waiting taxi and instructed the driver to take him back to the hotel.

* * *

_Liberty Diner – Same Day_

"Em, would you PLEASE cheer up?!" Justin beseeched his friend, observing the other man's hangdog look and hearing him emit yet another sigh. "He's not GOOD enough for you! The man's a total asshole – surely you realize that by now after his treatment of you – and me – last night." Emmett had just gotten through recounting for Justin how Marchant had totally ignored him after the blond had left Babylon last evening.

Yet another sigh, followed by a deep breath. "I know, Baby. He's just a player, only interested in what he can get for his own benefit. It's just a shame that such a fabulous package has to be wasted on such a total and utter JERK!"

"Won't get any argument out of me on that," Justin agreed. "But like I said, yes, he's hot and he KNOWS it. And he wants to make sure everyone ELSE knows it, too. What a phony! Em, you are so much BETTER than that man. Please don't waste another second thinking about him, okay? And you want to know something else? I like your cooking BETTER. At least when I eat something you make, I can pronounce the NAME of it," he joked, smiling and affectionately nudging the other man's side.

Em finally smiled in return. "I guess you could say I WAS fawning over him for a while…..along with a little bit of drooling on the side." His mouth twisted as he grimaced, remembering how he had gushed on and on about what a wonderful man Gaston was. He straightened up his shoulders, then, as he added, "But no more. This queen's about to find another hobby. And there won't be a French bone in his body."

"That's the spirit," Justin urged his friend.

As Kikki arrived to take their lunch orders, Emmett started to request his favorite mid-day meal. "I'll have the bacon cheeseburger and a large order of Fren…..never mind, a large order of _onion rings_," he corrected himself firmly, as Justin chuckled.

"Make that TWO, Kikki," the blond verified, as the two raised their water glasses and kinked them together in a show of solidarity.

* * *

"Chef?" Claude poked his head into the main area of their expansive, luxurious two-bedroom suite. He had heard the chef bustling around the living room of their accommodations a little earlier, so he knew the man was finally awake after coming in last night around 3:00 a.m.

"Over here, Claude," he heard his boss answer. Looking over at the sound of the other man's voice, Claude noticed Gaston sitting sideways on the couch, looking pensive. It was highly unusual for his superior to spend his mornings in this manner; he was always the first one up and was normally out the door long by now for his morning jog. No matter what city they were visiting, he always was insistent on undergoing his favorite form of exercise first thing in the morning. Claude had cautioned the other man about going jogging on his own – worried about a fan or the press hounding him if he were recognized – but the chef had maintained that at the ungodly hour he normally went jogging, most _normal_ people would still be in bed. By this hour of the morning, therefore, Gaston would have not only been back from his daily jog, he would have also showered and been dressed in his business attire for the day. Now, his assistant was surprised to note that the chef was still wearing his silk lounging pajamas he no doubt had donned when he had returned last night from his trip to the local dance club, _Babylon_.

Concerned over the other man's strange behavior, he asked, "Is something wrong, Monsieur?"

Seeming to shake himself out of his reverie, Gaston slowly turned his head to look at his assistant. "I'm fine, Claude," he assured the other man. "Why?"

"Well, this behavior is unusual for you, Monsieur."

"_Behavior_, my friend?"

"This…._relaxing_," the other man explained, as he swept his arm in the other man's direction.

Marchant chuckled softly. "Perhaps I need to practice this _relaxing_ more."

"Monsieur?"

"I've just got a lot to think about lately, Claude. Nothing to worry about," he assured the other man.

"Is there something I can do?" the assistant offered solicitously.

"Not unless you can change a certain fiery blond's mind for me," he answered enigmatically.

"Ah," Claude responded knowingly. "You would be referring to Monsieur Taylor." The assistant didn't quite understand how his superior could be so attracted to someone who had made no secret of his total disdain for him, but he guessed in matters of love, there wasn't always logic involved.

"You know me too well, my friend," Marchant smiled slightly. "It seems that no matter what I do, the man's opinion of me doesn't change. And the more he resists, the more _irresistible_ the man becomes," he admitted.

"One always wants what he can't seem to have the most," Claude commented.

Marchant looked up at the other man. "Very astute, as always, Claude, as well as _very_ accurate." He finally swung his long, toned legs around and stood up. "Well, I will just have to find a way to change the gentleman's mind," he decided determinedly.

"That is more like the man I know and admire," his assistant replied, not quite unintentionally stroking the other's man ego. If there was one attribute about Gaston, it was that the man was persistent when the need was warranted; no doubt this was going to be one of those times. _You won't know what hit you, Monsieur Taylor; best to capitulate now_, he thought wryly. He had seen Gaston before when he was intent on pursuing another man, and he could be relentless. Yet, he had never quite seen his superior and his long-time friend in such a quandary over what to about this one, particular, fiery blond who seemed to be prominently occupying the chef's thoughts.

Gaston smiled, acknowledging the other man's compliment. "I think it's time a do a little more research on my _subject_," the chef stated. Reaching over to pick up his laptop from the coffee table, he flipped it open and pressed the _on_ button. "This will be a good place to start, I think," he added, as Claude nodded his understanding before leaving the suite to prepare for his boss's next cooking lesson at the Culinary Institute.

* * *

_Pittsburgh International Airport, same day – Baggage Claim_

Brian reached his arms briefly over his head in an attempt to stretch his muscles; due to the plane being packed and his last-minute flight, he had been forced to sit in the middle seat on the plane; as a result, his reward was a slight headache and a tight neck.

Fortunately, he did not have long to wait before his one, medium-sized piece of luggage appeared on the baggage carrousel; he was more than ready to grab a taxi and head back to the loft for a much-anticipated reunion with his partner. That was enough to ease the aches and pains he was presently experiencing; after all, if he had his way, it wouldn't be long before he was experiencing a much more _pleasurable_ ache. _Sunshine, I'm going to wear your tight little ass out tonight,_ he smirked to himself.

Picking up his suitcase and wheeling his luggage from the crowded baggage claim area, he noticed the small newspaper and magazine booth located just before the transportation exit door. Ever the enterprising executive, he was always interested in keeping abreast of the current business events occurring in his hometown. Grabbing a copy of the monthly _Pittsburgh Business Digest_ and today's edition of the _Tribune-Review, _as an afterthought he also picked up the latest issue of _Pittsburgh Out_. Bracing them under his arm, he hurried out the door to hail a taxi, rushing to try and avoid the sudden, strong deluge of rain that now pounded down upon the pavement.

Settled as comfortably as he could be in the rather shabby cab's interior, he casually leafed through the first two newspapers as he was being driven back into town toward the loft. Setting them down eventually on the backseat, he picked up the third publication he had purchased, the most current copy of _Pittsburgh Out_ that had just been printed earlier that day. Flipping quickly through the various pages listing letters to the editor, cooking tips, and fashion news, his eyes immediately landed on a color photo prominently displayed at the top of the entertainment section. It wasn't so much the engagingly candid pose of the attractive, dark-haired man that grabbed his attention, although he instantly recognized the man as Gaston Marchant, the world-renowned gay chef from France. No, the part of the photo that immediately captured the now scowling man's interest was the sexy dancer's companion, a certain blond-haired, blue eyed man that Brian knew intimately well. And from the tightly-wrapped arms that closely embraced him, the other man apparently knew his partner intimately well, too. The caption that the publication chose to use under the prominent photo did not help his demeanor, either: _The world's sexiest chef, Frenchman Gaston Marchant, kicks up his well-manicured heels at Babylon with an unidentified, delicious blond dish of his own creation: ooh, la la!_

A mixture of hatred, possessiveness, and jealousy washed over the brunet as he felt his blood pressure rise and his face turn red. His plans for later that evening now shattered, he angrily smashed the newspaper into a crumpled, wrinkled ball, receiving a curious stare from the cabbie in the rear-view mirror. Ignoring the other man's silent question, he turned his face to the window, unwelcome scenarios invading his mind and his disposition now matching the gloomy patchwork of clouds that hovered above.


	7. Chapter 7: Boiling Point

_Same Day - Evening_

Despite Emmett's concerted efforts earlier to get his friend to go with him tonight to a new karaoke bar that had just opened, Justin decided to politely decline. He was relieved to find out, however, that Ted had agreed to go with him, because the older man was still a little down in the dumps over his failed efforts to get noticed by Marchant. At least Justin was confident he had finally convinced his friend that he could do much better with someone who appreciated him for the sweet, fun, and compassionate person that he was. In fact, he hoped that a special man would be there tonight waiting for him at the bar.

No, the blond had decided, instead, to spend some quiet time at Brian's loft; eagerly anticipating his partner's return tomorrow, he had thoughtfully made a trip to the nearby grocery to stock up on some of Brian's favorite foods, as well as a little of his own. He had also made a special point of buying a couple pints of the brand of vanilla bean ice cream that he could always persuade Brian to eat; that is, provided that Justin fed it to him and licked off any spoonfuls that _just happened_ to spill onto the brunet's chest. And, also, on the total _chance_ that both of them _just happened_ to be naked at the time. Smiling at the thought of his impending reunion with his partner, he began to cut up the vegetables he had purchased to prepare a beef stew to simmer in the crock pot. He decided the appliance would be perfect for devoting as _little_ time as possible to dinner while he was devoting _most_ of his time toward being reacquainted again with every inch of his partner's incredible body.

* * *

At that same moment, the previous object of Emmett's fascination was meticulously looking at his appearance in a full-length mirror in his suite's bedroom. Marchant smiled, satisfied that the soft, brown lambskin jacket, tight chocolate brown wife beater shirt, and black leather pants that molded to the angular curves of his lower, muscled body would provide the results he was hoping for. That, and the decadent dessert he had carefully prepared earlier, _Clafoutis aux Cerises_. One of his renowned specialties and perfectly baked to a golden brown, it was a cross between a cake and a flan, loaded with succulent cherries and topped with powdered sugar. Lying in an elegant, foil presentation box on the kitchen table, it was destined to be both a peace offering as well as a temptation for a certain blond spitfire prominently occupying the Frenchman's mind. Hopefully, too, it would provide a prelude to more _pleasurable _activities later.

After looking over Justin's student file again, as well as researching what he could find out on the internet, the man was even more impressed with the independent blond. Through news reports online, he had discovered that the emerging artist had experienced a traumatic assault during his senior year in high school, and had been disenfranchised from his father due to his refusal to deny his sexuality. There were also reports detailing his efforts on behalf of Proposition 14, and his subsequent arrest for trespassing in front of his father's own store. Even more impressive, however, were the articles he had found regarding the artist's talent; it seems that not only had some of his paintings been displayed in various shows and at several locations throughout the Liberty Avenue area, but the talented young man has also helped to co-create a gay comic book and had provided the local Gay and Lesbian Center with an edgy, provocative poster for their fundraiser. The examples of Justin's paintings provided online were dramatic, vibrant, and full of energy. Marchant decided that Justin must have been French in a previous life, if the passion that emerged through his paintings was any indication.

Admiring his reflection one last time, he walked into the kitchen and picked up the carefully prepared dessert before leaving for the address Justin had left on his student application.

* * *

As the taxi neared its destination, Brian continued to stare out the window, lost in thought. He could not reconcile the photo that apparently showed his partner dancing intimately with Marchant against the conversation he had had earlier with him. During their talk, he thought Justin had been perfectly clear as to what his impression was of the Frenchman; if he recalled correctly, Justin had called him arrogant, pompous, and conceited, among other adjectives. How did the situation change so rapidly in such a short amount of time? Had the blond been lying to him the whole time when, in fact, the two had been together, probably laughing at him behind his back? He was familiar with Marchant and certainly wasn't blind to the man's dark, brooding, good looks and French accent that most men no doubt found very attractive. But he thought he knew his partner better than that. Had Justin learned his partner's lessons _too well_? After the fiasco with Ethan, he thought Justin was faithful to him – he had promised him, had assured him that he _loved_ him. And despite Brian's determination to never utter the words out loud, he had come to the realization that he loved Justin as well. Was it all a lie? Hurt and uncharacteristically unsure of himself, he decided he was going to get to the bottom of this quandry, and IMMEDIATELY.

* * *

Marchant's limo pulled up in front of the nondescript, multi-level brick building on Tremont Street. Noticing the address listed on the wall, he confirmed he had the correct location. Curious as to what type of residence the artist lived in, he instructed the driver to remain there until he was told otherwise; at this point, Marchant was not sure how the evening would progress, although he was hopeful he would be able to persuade the other man to return with him to his luxury apartment.

Grasping the boxed dessert, he emerged from the limousine and walked to the front door. He noticed to his consternation that the door had a security code box adjacent to it; he had not counted on this obstacle. Trying to arrive at a solution that did not involve announcing his appearance prematurely to his quarry, he found himself in luck as a young woman approached the entrance from down the street. Donning his most brilliant smile and deliberately taking care to speak with a decidedly French accent, he greeted the stranger with a slight bow.

"Pardon – I seemed to have misplaced my apartment key. I am so fortunate that you arrived when you did, cherie." He gently took the woman's hand in his own and brought it gallantly to his lips for a quick kiss, eliciting a blush from the stranger. "You Frenchmen are SO sexy," she giggled, as she happily opened the door with her key and held it open for the man to follow behind her. "Merci," the chef responded, again bowing slightly. "I hope we meet again," he politely added. "I hope so, too," she answered, face still pink with excitement, as she pressed the elevator button. "Are you going up?" she inquired hopefully.

"Ah, that would be lovely, mon cherie, but we Frenchmen prefer to walk," he explained, noticing the staircase at the end of the hallway as he bid her adieu. As the door chimed and she entered the elevator car, she gave the man a small wave before disappearing. Marchant retrieved a small note from his pocket that listed the apartment number before opening the exit door for the stairs and beginning his ascent.

He noticed the fourth floor, where the apartment was apparently located, was on the top, because the stairs ended there. As he emerged at the top of the open staircase, he noticed his intended destination was directly across from the stairs. Somewhat nervous now that he was finally about to meet the enigmatic blond again, he slowly walked toward the door, standing directly in front of it for a few seconds before he finally raised his hand and knocked.

* * *

Justin was just about to place the cut-up vegetables into the crock pot when he was startled by a knock on the door. _Surely that can't be Brian. It's a day early, and besides, he wouldn't knock on his own door. _Wiping his hands on a nearby kitchen towel, he curiously walked over to the heavy door and swung it open, where he found the last man he would have expected to be standing there with a shiny, square box in his hand.

"What the _fuck_ are YOU doing here?" he demanded, hands on hips.

Marchant couldn't help smiling a little at the blond's indignant, spirited reaction. _Fiery spitfire, indeed._ Out loud, he answered, "I came bearing gifts. May I come in?" he asked politely.

"NO, you may NOT," Justin promptly replied, as he attempted to close the cumbersome door right in the smug man's face. But unfortunately, he wasn't quite fast enough to prevent the other man from grasping the door with a surprisingly strong grip and quickly placing a foot in the door to prevent it from being closed.

"Now, Justin, I only want to talk to you," he beseeched the other man soothingly, speaking to him as if the other man was a misbehaving child. "Can we not start over, _mon chaton_?" Marchant implored, as he worked to get a firmer foothold in the door to enter.

"No, we may NOT!" Justin answered firmly. "Now will you please GO?" he demanded, trying urgently to push the other man's foot away from the door so he could close it.

"Ah, but you are a stubborn man, _Monsieur Taylor_," the chef replied, fascinated that this man could somehow be impervious to his charms; no matter – he always did love a challenge, and this was no exception. The only difference was that this _particular_ challenge was being especially willful. "I just want to talk to you, Justin," he repeated, using his most sexy French accent to pronounce the blond's first name. He was finally able to use his greater strength against the other, more slender man to his advantage to successfully pull the door open wide enough to gain access to the inside.

Finally admitting defeat, Justin turned his back to the other man and shook his head in disgust, crossing his arms defiantly. "What will it take for you to get it through your thick, French skull that I am NOT interested?" he cried, totally frustrated. The man was absolutely insufferable.

Pouring on the charm that made most other men practically swoon at his feet, Marchant leaned in closer to the other man's back and whispered over his shoulder, "Five minutes, mon chaton. That is all I ask. I just want a brief truce to try and start over. S'il vous plait?" he implored sincerely.

Justin was so tired of this cat and mouse game, but he could think of no practical way to throw the man out; he had already discovered that he was no match for the Frenchman's strength, so if the arrogant chef did not want to leave, he really had no way to _physically_ throw him out. Perhaps if he pretended to go along with the conceited, pompous man and be civil to him for five minutes, the man would finally realize he wasn't interested and leave of his own accord. Coming to an inevitable conclusion, he finally muttered to the other man, "_FIVE minutes, _Marchant," before turning to walk over to the couch and sit down.

Taking that as an open invitation to join him, the chef quickly placed dessert box on a nearby coffee table and gracefully sat down beside the beautiful blond, _too close_ for Justin's comfort but apparently just perfect as far as the other man was concerned. Briefly, the Frenchman admired the smooth, pale skin, sapphire blue eyes, and glowing blond hair of the slender man now sitting awkwardly next to him. "Ah, cheri, you are so beautiful," he couldn't help murmuring sexily as he leaned in closer to the other man to prepare to kiss the full, plump pink lips that looked so inviting, his initial idea of simply talking to the man long forgotten.

* * *

Brian disembarked from the cab, hurriedly pushing a twenty into the cabbie's outstretched hand before grabbing his briefcase and piece of luggage from the trunk. He was anxious to speak with Justin and find out exactly what had been going on during his absence, and even though he was dreading it in a way, he was hoping the blond was waiting for him up in the loft so they could hash everything out right away.

Waiting impatiently for the elevator car to stop on the fourth floor, he urgently pushed the door open as the car stopped and walked firmly to the loft door. Placing his briefcase and piece of luggage down, he quickly shoved his key into the lock and roughly shoved the door open.

As he looked into the loft, initially he did not think anyone was there; suddenly, however, he heard a surprised yelp from the direction of the couch, and was stunned to see his partner and another man he immediately recognized as Marchant sitting closely together, apparently about to kiss.

Justin literally jumped up from the couch, his face a picture of what? Surprise? Shock? Or was it guilt? Enraged by what he envisioned as a romantic tryst between the man he loved and the sexy Frenchman, his face turned a deep red and unrelenting, unreasonable fury quickly rose to a rapid boil as he exploded. "What the FUCK do you think you're doing? I leave for a couple of days and THIS is what happens behind my back?! You are nothing but a goddamned liar, Justin!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Take your Frenchman lover and get the FUCK out of my loft! I never want to see you again!"

Marchant rose, speechless, at the sudden, unexpected intrusion into his attempt to make amends with the blond artist. As he stood rooted to the spot, Justin rushed toward Brian, pleading, "Brian, listen to me! This is NOT what it looks like! I TOLD you how I felt about him! He came over here unannounced and I was trying to get RID of him! You've GOT to listen to me!" Justin tried to grasp the other man's arms, only to be shoved roughly away.

"You make me SICK!" Brian countered, scorn and disgust dripping from his voice. "I am NOT going through this again! Get OUT! And take your French lover with YOU!" he repeated.

Marchant was terrified of this screaming, outraged ball of fury; finally finding his feet, he rapidly turned toward the door, stopping briefly to try and pull the blond along with him. "Come with me, mon cheri," he urged Justin, who rapidly shrugged him off and ignored his pleas. "Go!" Justin simply said to the man who had now managed to completely put his and Brian's relationship in tremendous turmoil. The Frenchman hesitated only for a few seconds before hurrying over to the still open loft door and rushing through it, running down the flight of stairs to escape the other man's wrath.

Brian noticed his partner still standing there, looking furious for some reason at HIM. "What are you waiting FOR?" he asked him. "Your _lover_ has already left," he pointed out scathingly, turning his back on the blond.

Justin stood rooted to the spot and stared in disbelief at Brian's back, too shocked and hurt to move for a few moments. "I can't believe you, Brian," he finally said quietly in despair. "Despite what you think, I did NOTHING wrong. I was trying to get the man to LEAVE," he insisted. Brian continued to maintain a defiant pose, his rigid back to the other man and saying nothing.

A deadly quiet continued to permeate the loft until Justin's shoulders sagged in surrender. "I guess we have nothing else to say," he said, before he dejectedly picked up his jacket and walked out the door. Brian finally turned around to make sure Justin had left before walking over to the kitchen to pour him a glass of Jim Beam. As if in a trance, he took his drink over to the large window just in time to see Justin slowly shuffling down the street, alone, shoulders slumped and head down. Taking the tumbler, he suddenly threw it violently against the glass, watching it as it shattered into a million tiny pieces.

* * *

**_A/N: Sorry if this chapter took on a little more angsty tone than I had initially envisioned it - it was just the way my warped mind worked - LOL! Not to worry, though - it's just a brief interlude before the normal happy reunion eventually. Just a couple of notes, too, regarding the French phrase "mon chaton." If I did my research correctly, it translates to "my kitten" in English. _**


	8. Chapter 8: A Heaping Serving of Comfort

Cynthia looked up as Ted approached her desk, the angry voice of her boss permeating through the closed door behind her. It wasn't difficult to hear that Brian was firing yet another employee that morning due to, as he put it, being a "fuck-up;" it was the 3rd employee who had received that distinction today, and it was only 9:30 a.m.

"What in the world is going on?" Ted asked her, totally puzzled. He had last spoken with Brian late yesterday afternoon, and at the time his boss had sounded extremely upbeat after winning over a much sought-after client in Chicago that had proven to be so elusive previously.

"I wish I knew," Cynthia answered, looking uncharacteristically flustered. "He came in this morning without so much as a _hello_, walked straight into his office, slammed the door, and has been on a total rampage ever since. I mean, he's never _Mary Sunshine_ when someone fucks up an account, but he's NEVER been like this. He even missed an early appointment with Brown Athletics for breakfast. Said he _had something come up_." Shaking her head, she added, "This is NOT like him, especially when it comes to business. When you talked to him yesterday, did he say something had happened?"

"No, that's what I can't figure out," Ted informed her. "When I spoke to him he was in a great mood. Said he had been very successful and was happy to be getting out of Chicago a day early. He was on his way back to the loft from the airport."

Cynthia was silent for a few seconds. "Hmmm…The only time he's usually this bad is when it is has to do somethng to with one thing – or should I say _person._"

"You mean Justin," Ted responded insightfully.

"Yeah, exactly. But last I heard they were doing great – they had worked everything out after that _violin player _and after Brian's cancer, they seemed closer than ever_._"

"Well, something sure happened between yesterday and today. But I LIKE my job – I'M not going in there to find out. Let's just hope it blows over somehow, or those three employees may not be the ONLY heads on the chopping block."

"Yeah, I suppose," Cynthia agreed, rubbing the back of her neck to try and relieve some of the sudden stiffness there. "But as moody as Brian can get, he's still my friend – just don't ever tell HIM that," she joked. "And I know him well enough to know that he's hurting about something. And I'll bet you any amount of money it has something to do with Justin."

"You think we should call him?"

Cynthia slowly shook her head. "No," she said finally. "I don't think it's our place to get in the middle of it. I just hope they're able to work out whatever the problem is, because until they do, Brian's going to be a real asshole to work with."

Ted nodded. "Okay. But if it's all the same to you, I'll think I'll come back a little LATER with this paperwork."

"Smart idea," Cynthia agreed, nodding slightly.

* * *

"NOW who needs cheering up?" Emmett asked, sitting next to Justin on his couch, which had served as the blond's bed last night. Em had found his friend sitting by his apartment door, eyes red and hunched over, when he had finally stumbled home last night at 2:00 a.m. after spending several hours at the karaoke bar. Other than asking Em in a broken voice if he could stay with him last night, Justin hadn't said anything more than "thank you" after the older man had brought him out a pillow and blanket to use on the couch.

Em had quietly awakened around 8:00 and fixed himself some breakfast. An hour later, he finally heard the slight rustling of a blanket being pushed back on the couch, and observed Justin slowly rising off his temporary bed. But apart from making a quick trip to the bathroom, he hadn't moved from his station at the end of the couch. Now he sat there, dressed in the same clothes he was wearing last night, his hands on his knees and his head down. He didn't have to say anything to Emmett, however, for the other man to know he was in a lot of pain.

Peering over at the defeated-looking blond, he softly asked, "Baby? Talk to me. You're starting to freak me out here. What happened to you?" Justin didn't look up at the sound of Em's voice; it was almost as if he were in a catatonic state. "Did someone hurt you?" Em was really starting to get worried; this was not like the usually-animated young man. Reaching over a hand tentatively to gently brush against the other's arm, he repeated, "Talk to your Auntie Em, Honey."

Justin finally responded to the man's compassionate voice, and looked up slowly from the floor, turning to face his friend. His face was a mixture of hurt, frustration, and disappointment. Em had to strain to make out what he was saying as he whispered to him, shaking his head, "I can't do it again, Em. I'm done."

"Can't do what, Baby?"

"Go running back to Brian, begging him to take me back. Not this time."

_Brian? What the hell? _

"Honey, I don't understand. What does Brian have to do with this? I thought he wasn't due in until tonight."

Justin laughed at the absurdity of the situation. "Well, he made a surprise guest appearance last night at the loft."

Emmett was totally confused; last he heard the two of them were closer than ever. "Did something happen between the two of you? I thought you guys had worked everything out and were happier than two bugs in a rug."

Sarcasm dripped from the blond's voice as he explained, "That was before Brian walked in on my _latest affair." _Justin shook his head, still not quite believing what had happened last night.

Em started at that last statement. "Uh…._affair?_ What are you talking about? Did you bring home one of the boys from Babylon for some late night entertainment before the _main event_ got home tonight? Because, Honey, you know HE wouldn't hesitate to fuck every young go-go boy that caught _his _fancy."

"No, it wasn't some trick from Babylon."

"Well…..then…..who? Who did he find you with?"

Justin hesitated before answering; this was going to take some explaining, especially to Emmett. "Before you jump to conclusions like Brian did, it was Marchant."

Emmett was stunned – the French chef? "You were having an _affair_ with Gaston? Tell me you're kidding," he sputtered. "I thought you HATED the guy. You said you despised him, that he was the most arrog…."

"Emmett, LISTEN to me! I was NOT having an affair with the asshole! I STILL think he's the most smug, conceited son of a bitch I've ever MET!" The blond sighed in frustration, noticing that his friend was becoming agitated for no reason. "This is not coming out the way I had hoped. Please – let me explain. Don't you go doing what BRIAN did last night – I can't take any more unfair accusations." He rubbed his hands across his eyes in desperation.

Em took a calming breath, finallhy assuring his friend, "Just tell me, Baby. I'll listen to what you have to say."

"Well, THAT'S refreshing. BRIAN certainly didn't see it that way." He looked intently at Emmett as he explained, "I had stopped at the grocery yesterday afternoon to pick up a few things before Brian got home – you know how the man is, he never keeps anything _nutritional_ in his refrigerator. I wanted to stock up on a few things, and buy some vegetables to use in his crock pot. I figured I could put it on low the next day and he would have dinner ready when he got home." He looked at Emmett to make sure he was paying attention to what he was saying; it was important to him that his friend realize what had really happened. The last thing Justin wanted was for his friend to think he was trying to steal Marchant away from him. Not that his friend ever had the man, anyway, but no matter.

He continued with the story before he chickened out. "Well, I was cutting up the vegetables for the stew when I heard a knock on the door. I really didn't think it was Brian – he would never knock since he has a key – but I couldn't imagine who it was. Well, when I went to open up the door, Marchant was standing there with some dessert he had made in a box."

"What did he want?" Emmett asked, a little jealous that his friend seemed to have once again caught the attention of the man he had been hoping to attract for the last few days.

"He SAID he just wanted to talk to me, to start over because we had started off on the wrong track. Boy, that's a fucking understatement. And I tried to get him to leave – I really did. But the man wedged his foot in the door and refused to let me shut it." Justin explained, "He was a lot stronger than me, and he managed to push the door open just far enough to squeeze in."

Emmett was shocked at the man's boldness. "What did you do then, Baby?"

Now that the flood gates had opened, Justin couldn't get the words out fast enough. "I turned my back on him and told him I wanted him to leave. I meant it, Em," he assured the other man. It was important to him that Emmett knew he was NOT encouraging Marchant in any way; he only wished he had been able to convince BRIAN of that. "He just continued to pressure me, telling me to give him just five minutes to explain. Finally, I agreed to let him talk – and I mean ONLY talk – for five minutes if it meant he would finally realize I wasn't interested, nor would I EVER be interested in him, and give up and leave. I went to sit on the couch and he followed me, sitting so close to me I could smell some fucking liquor on his breath. And instead of _talking _to me, the fucker made some lame comment about how beautiful I was," Justin hesitated now, worried how the next comment would come out, "and then…….He leaned over to try and kiss me." He looked at his friend's pained expression and pleaded, "Em, I did NOT encourage him in ANY way – you've GOT to believe me."

Emmett took a deep breath before he finally replied softly, "I'm sure you didn't, Baby. You made no bones about how much you disliked him from the very first night we met him. And I saw how you were the other night at Babylon. Let's just say I don't think you were trying to perform some kinky type of foreplay when you kneed the guy in the balls when he tried to dance with you."

Justin smiled slightly at that statement, relieved. "You saw that, did you? Well, I'm glad you believe me."

"Justin, you were my friend long before I got the hots for the chocolate éclair. And I suspect you'll STILL be my friend long after _Pepe _is gone," he smirked, mouth twisting in a wry smile. Wanting to return to Justin's accounting of last night, Emmett prompted him. "Something tells me that might have been the moment when _Brian_ decided to return home?"

"Yeah, he has perfect timing, doesn't he? Just as Marchant leaned over to try and kiss me, I heard the loft door opening and Brian walks right in at that precise moment. What Brian doesn't know, and didn't care to find out, is that if he had come in even two seconds later, the fucker would have doubled over in pain, because I would have twisted his cock so hard it would have been mistaken for one of those balloon animals, and NOT a very pretty one at that." Justin smiled, pleased at the idea of the smug chef getting exactly what he had coming to him. But his face abruptly clouded over as he replayed Brian's reaction immediately afterward.

"I take it Mr. Ad Executive didn't wait for an explanation from either you or Marchant? Did he even let the guy leave in one piece?"

"Oh, he let him leave, all right, because he was too furious at ME. He DID scare the shit out of the man, though. I don't think Marchant will be trying to contact me again after last night." Sighing, he added, "And apparently neither will Brian, either," he lamented softly, tears once more springing to his eyes. "Em, he said some terrible things. Said he was sick of me, that I was a liar, and he never wanted to see me again. He wouldn't even let me try and explain." Justin pursed his lips together in a futile effort not to cry again; he had already cried a river last night before he had arrived at his friend's door. "I'm done," he repeated softly in surrender.

Emmett felt extremely sorry for Justin, helpless to know how to comfort him. He had always felt a bond with him; he admired Justin's fun-loving, passionate approach to life and his courage. And at that moment, he felt total disgust at what Brian had done to make his friend so utterly despondent.

"Why don't we go down to the diner and get some breakfast?" Em suggested to his friend. He thought it would do the blond some good to get out of the apartment for a while and take his mind off Brian, the moron; never mind that he had just eaten - he could always get a cup of coffee.

There was just a hint of a grateful smile as Justin sniffled slightly, trying hard to keep the unshed tears from falling. "Thanks, Em, but the last thing I want is to risk running into _him_. It would be just my luck that he was taking a late breakfast or something."

"Okay, Baby. But you know you're bound to run into him at some point. It can't be helped – Liberty Avenue isn't that big."

Biting his lip, Justin nodded. He slowly rose from the couch as Em watched him closely, wondering what was going on in his mind. "I think I'll just take a shower and then go for a walk to try and clear my head. Maybe I'll take my sketchpad with me and draw." The young man looked totally lost, unable to even contemplate a life without Brian in it. He stopped after walking a few steps to turn around and face the other man. "Why does being in love have to _hurt_ so fucking much?" before he continued to walk toward the shower.

Emmett shook his head. Justin did not deserve this. He was repulsed by Brian's actions, but the brunet wasn't fooling him for one minute. If the man didn't love Justin as much as he did, he would not have been so furious with him last night. Well, it was time the man found out he had fucked up – royally. And Emmett decided he was just the right man for the job.

Speaking up a little to be heard over the din of the shower, he cracked open the bathroom door to advise his guest, "Baby, I've got an errand to run. You make yourself at home and leave when you want. I'll be back later, okay, and maybe we have some lunch together."

"Okay, Em," he heard the other man answer wearily. "And Em….., he added, "Thanks for being such a good friend."

Em wiped a tear away that had unexpectedly arisen in his own eye. "Anytime, Baby, anytime," he assured the other man softly, before he opened the door to begin his quest for righteousness. A quest that would have to begin at Kinnetik.


	9. Chapter 9: Just a Little Pinch of Truth

Ted glanced up at his desk just in time to see someone who looked very familiar purposely striding toward his boss's office. He knew he must be imagining things, however, because the flashily-dressed person who looked so familiar looked remarkably like his best friend, Emmett. But unless the man was out of his mind, or had a death wish, it _couldn't_ be Emmett.

"Hi, Teddy," Emmett smiled just then, not even breaking stride as he continued walking firmly toward his target.

Ted jumped up from his desk, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. Not bothering to worry about the now broken piece of furniture, he rushed toward his friend, just in time to intercept him before he was about to knock loudly on Brian's door.

"Em!" he hissed urgently, grabbing onto his friend's sleeve. What the FUCK do you think you're doing? You just can't _walk_ in THERE!"

"WATCH me," Em countered. Just before he was about to knock, though, something apparently occurred to him, because he turned to his friend and added, "Come with me, Teddy, I need back up."

"You can SAY that again," Ted growled. "One step in there right now and you'll be turned into Lady Godiva without having to go through a sex change operation. He's chewing everybody a new one today. You do NOT want to go in there," he urgently warned his friend.

But Em was not to be deterred. Sticking his chin out, he said, "Yes, I do," before neither Ted nor Cynthia, who had quickly approached the man as she realized his intention, could stop him. Hesitantly just briefing, he didn't even knock on the door; he just flung it open and invited himself inside.

Brian glared as he looked up from the computer screen he was scrutinizing. "Well, if it isn't the Nelly Queen of Pittsburgh," he sarcastically declared, as his voice began to rise. "What the FUCK are you doing here!? GET OUT – NOW!" he screamed, arm pointing to the door as fury and outrage dripped from his voice.

"Sorry, Brian, can't do that," Emmett assertively replied. Actually, inside he was terrified of the other man's extreme wrath, but he was not going to leave until he said what he had to say. "We have to talk," he stated simply.

"NO, we DON'T," Brian assured him loudly, now standing up as if prepared to _bodily_ escort the man out if he had to; he had had enough this morning of overbearing, incompetent fools, and this man fit right into that category, whether he worked for him or not.

Gulping and taking a deep breath, Ted decided his friendship with Emmett was worth the risk of potential physical harm, and, squaring his shoulders, he bravely entered the skirmish, coming to his friend's defense. Walking into Brian's office, he placed a hand on Emmett's shoulder, as the other man turned to him, smiling gratefully for the support. "Brian, I'm sure Emmett wouldn't be here unless he had something important to say," he said soothingly.

"Emmett NEVER has anything _important_ to say," he snarled. Directing his next comment at the accountant, he warned, "I'm giving you _five seconds_ to get him the FUCK out of here before I throw him out myself – PIECE BY PIECE!" To emphasis his intention, the brunet slowly began to come out from behind his desk, causing Ted to push Emmett behind him in what certainly would be a vain attempt to protect him, should Brian make good on his threat.

"Em, perhaps you should go," Ted urgently suggested to his friend.

But Em had come here for a purpose, and by God, he wasn't leaving until he had accomplished it. What Brian chose to do with the information, however, was going to be up to the stubborn brunet.

"You can threaten me all you want, _Mr. Kinney_, but Justin is my friend, and I'm NOT leaving here until you hear what I have to say."

At the mention of Justin's name, Brian immediately tensed up, his eyes narrowing in an unspoken challenge. "I NEVER want to hear that name ever again," he replied in a deceptively even tone, but there was barely-controlled anger bubbling under the surface.

Ted tried once again to desperately reinstate some sense into his foolhardy friend. "Em, I really think you should go," he beseeched the other man, tugging on his friend's arm more forcefully in an attempt to pull him back out the door.

Emmett crossed his arms defiantly and declared, "I am NOT leaving until I talk to Brian. You can threaten me all you want, _Mr. Kinney_. But for Justin's sake, I will not be intimidated. I don't care WHAT happens to you, but I DO care about him."

"Whatever he's putting you up to, you're wasting your time," Brian assured him. "Now LEAVE," he again warned him, slowly advancing once more on the other man.

Instead of being backing down, however, Emmett SAT down, prepared to make himself comfortable until he had the other man's attention. Even if it DID mean taking his life into his own hands.

"Are you fucking out of your MIND or just deaf?" Brian asked him, stunned that the flamboyant man wouldn't take his threat seriously. The two stared daggers at each other for several tense seconds, neither one willing to give in, until finally Brian turned slowly and walked back to his desk, slumping down into his chair as if exhausted. Ted looked warily back and forth at both men, unsure what he should do, before Brian surprisingly told him, "Leave us. The sooner the nelly queen imparts his dribble, the sooner he will leave and I can fucking get back to work." He waved his hand in dismissal at Ted as if he were a royal subject, before the accountant finally decided Emmett would be safe for now and turned toward the door. As he hesitated on whether to close the door or not, Brian decided for him. "Close it," he ordered. "I promise not to slaughter him until AFTER he finishes what urgent diatribe he has to say." Nodding to Brian in a silent plea not to hurt his friend, Ted quietly closed the door, leaving the two men alone in the tense atmosphere.

Several seconds elapsed before Brian simply steepled his fingers and said, "Well? What was so fucking urgent?"

"Funny you should use that word, Brian, because YOU'RE the one who's fucked it up."

Brian looked amused. "Oh, really? Because I finally found out what a fool Justin has been making of me?"

Emmett snorted. "Oh, believe me, Brian – you've done a fine job of making YOURSELF look like a fool."

Brian was becoming angrier by the minute. "Now, listen, you asshole! The only reason why I didn't throw you out is because for some unfathomable reason, Ted thinks of you as his friend, and I happen to respect Theodore. But unless you have something _intelligent_ to say, this conversation's OVER."

"Well, let me get right to the point, then," Emmett answered defensively. "I found a very upset young man on my doorstep early this morning because someone he loves came home last night and immediately jumped to the wrong conclusions about him and Marchant."

"Oh, really? Is that all you have to say? Because I KNOW what I saw." Brian didn't even know why he was bothering to have this conversation with Emmett, but somehow he couldn't stop himself. "I saw the two of them in my loft, about to kiss, looking all comfy-cozy," he reported, his suddenly choked-up voice betraying the hurt he still felt even now. "And this was the day AFTER they were dancing together at Babylon, all lovey-dovey. Eyes don't lie," he defended lamely.

"Well, they DO lie when you don't see the whole picture," Emmett countered. "I've SEEN Justin with Marchant from the beginning – the first day of our cooking class. And I can tell you unequivocally that he DESPISED the man from the minute he saw him. He thought he was the most arrogant, pompous, conceited, and smug man he had ever met, despite how hard I tried to convince him of the contrary," he conceded.

Brian wouldn't admit to Emmett (or to himself) that Justin had told him the same thing, also; his pain was preventing him from entertaining that possibility presently. His pride continued to take dominance as he argued, "Well, apparently his opinion changed pretty damn fast, from what I saw last night."

"What you SAW was Marchant trying to make _unwanted_ advances toward your boyfriend," watching Brian wince at the _cutesy_ word. "The man showed up unannounced at your door, and when Justin tried to shut it in his face, he stuck a foot in the door to prevent him from doing so. And then he proceeded to PUSH his way into the room against Justin's wishes. The man is obviously stronger than him, and he wasn't sure what he was capable of. So when Marchant asked for five minutes just to _talk _to him," Emmett heard a distinctive snort from the brunet at that comment, but chose to ignore it, "he didn't know what else to do, so he decided to go along with him until he was able to make it clear to him he wasn't interested. He had no idea the man was going to try and kiss him." At Brian's incredulous look, Emmett persisted. "I don't CARE whether you choose to believe it or not, but Justin told me if you had showed up just a few seconds later, in his words, the man's cock would have been twisted so much it would have looked like a balloon animal."

Brian had to admit that sounded like something Justin would have said, but his pride and pain refused to believe it could be true. He tried one more attempt to prove he was right by asking Emmett, "What about the other night at Babylon? Are you going to tell me the two of them weren't dancing together? How do you explain that away, _Your Majesty?_"

Emmett was puzzled; did Justin tell Brian about that? "How did you know that Justin ran into Marchant at Babylon the other night?" he asked curiously.

"I saw a photo of the two of them in the latest copy of _Pittsburgh Out_ that I picked up at the airport last night," he divulged. "Are you just going to conveniently explain that away, too?" he asked sarcastically.

"Not at all," Emmett surprisingly admitted. "But, again, for some reason you are seeing what you WANT to see, not what actually happened."

"Oh, I see, of course." Brian couldn't keep the ridicule out of his voice. This was a fucking waste of time. _Finally_, he thought, as he noticed Emmett standing up as if to leave. Instead, however, he walked to the door and, opening it, called, "Teddy? Would you come here for a minute, please?"

Ted was enormously relieved to see that apparently Emmett was still in one piece, but he was mystified and just a little apprehensive about becoming a participant in Brian and his friend's confrontation. Hesitantly and just a little timidly, he walked into the middle of the battlefield. "You needed me for something, Em?" he asked, hoping it wasn't for protection. He seriously doubted if he would be of much help when it came to defending Emmett against Brian.

"Yes, Teddy, will you tell Brian what you saw the other night between Justin and Marchant when they ran into each at Babylon? After Marchant came in with ME?" he emphasized, making sure that the brunet was aware the chef did NOT arrive with Brian's partner.

Ted wasn't sure what their conversation had entailed, but he was beginning to see what Emmett was trying to prove. Besides, it was the truth, anyway. Trying to calm his quickly-beating heart, Ted took a breath before reporting, "I saw Justin dancing alone out on the dance floor, his eyes closed like he always does when he's caught up in a good beat, when Marchant approached him from behind, and placed his arms around his waist." He noticed Brian's face turning red as he recalled what he had seen, causing Ted to rush through the rest of his statement before Brian misunderstood what he was trying to tell him. "Well, as soon as Justin opened his eyes and turned around to see who it was, you could tell he was NOT happy to see him; anybody could easily tell that just by the look on his face. Even if you couldn't, it was obvious within a few seconds because he turned completely around to face him and kneed the fucker right in the balls! He had great aim, too – you should have seen it!" Ted chuckled as he recalled the rest of the event. "The guy literally went limping toward the bathroom. I'm sure if he could have spoken at that moment, he would have been mistaken for a soprano right then," he joked, shaking his head in amazement as he thought about the younger man's nerve.

Emmett stared at Brian now, vindication on his face. "The only thing I want to know now, Brian, is just what DO your eyes want to see when you look at Justin? Someone who is going to hurt you again, or someone who loves you and wants your trust?" Emmett finally stood up to go – he felt he had said everything he needed to say, especially when he noticed the look of enlightenment slowly spreading across Brian's face, along with something else that he found extremely satisfying in a way – remorse.

"I guess my final question now is – is it too late?" he concluded, as he walked out with Ted, leaving Brian sitting there wth nothing but regret and shame.


	10. Chapter 10: A Little Shot of Jim Beam

Justin sat, cross-legged, on the dull, grassy field, absentmindedly pulling up brown-green blades between his fingers. For March, it was actually unseasonably warm – in the low 60's. It was a welcome change, after all the snow the city had had this past winter. But his mood would have been more at home with the normally-frigid, gloomy and dreary days the Pitts notoriously had during the month, because he was feeling _anything_ but warm presently.

He blinked back tears that once again threatened to fall. He had promised himself this morning when he left Emmett's apartment that he was NOT going to cry again like some little scared faggot. But that was before the scathing words of his partner came rushing back to him once again. Hurtful, biting words that had the power to do more damage than any physical blows ever could. Words that he had hoped he would never have to hear from Brian, because he had promised his partner that he would never put him in that situation again. And he hadn't – only Brian had immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion and decided that he _had._ And maybe that is what hurt the MOST. The lack of trust. If there was no groundwork of trust, how could they ever really have a relationship? Did Brian even _want_ the type of relationship Justin craved? The blond had finally begun to hope that he did. And now _this._

He was briefly startled when he heard his cell phone ring. He was going to turn the damn thing off completely, but then he thought, _why bother? Brian had made it abundantly clear he didn't want to see or talk to him again_. Glancing down, he noticed it was Emmett calling. Sighing softly, he tried to collect himself as much as possible before flipping the phone open.

"Hi, Em," he answered wearily. He felt so emotionally drained right now, there was no way to keep that out of his voice, no matter how hard he tried.

"Hey, Baby," his friend greeted him tenderly. "Where are you? Are you okay? Never mind, I guess that's a silly question, isn't it?"

"It's okay, Em," Justin assured him. "I've….had better weeks," he softly answered. "I'm still at the park. Haven't really done much drawing, though," he admitted. "I've kind of had other things on my mind."

"I understand, Sweetie. I'm done with my errands – you want to join me for lunch somewhere? It doesn't have to be at the diner or Woody's. We can go outside our comfort zone and try something new," he urged hopefully. He really wanted to help his friend get his mind off _you know who_ – if that was possible. As much as his passionate, blond friend always threw himself full-force into anything or anyone that mattered to him, he knew that would pretty much be impossible. But he had to try, at least until a certain idiotic moron hopefully came to his senses.

He heard the hesitation in the young voice before he responded; normally Justin would have been unable to pass up an opportunity to try some place new to eat. "No, I'm sorry, Em, I don't really think I could eat right now," he decided. "Don't worry about me. I'm okay. Why don't you and Teddy meet for lunch somewhere? I'll be back later, I promise. That is, if you don't mind me camping out on your couch a little longer." Justin really had no idea where he would go. He hated the thought of going back to Deb's yet again with his tail between his legs, and he just couldn't go back to his _mother_. That sounded so juvenile somehow.

"Baby, you stay as long as you need to," Em assured him, joking, "Just don't pay me any mind if I meet some hot stud while I'm out for lunch and bring him back for _dessert_ later."

"Happy hunting, then," Justin responded. Just before his friend started to hang up, he heard Justin add, "And Em….thanks again. You really are a good friend. I'm lucky to have you."

Em sniffed, touched. "Anytime, baby. Anytime. I'll see you later, then. _Ciao_ for now." Hanging up his cell phone, Em thought, _Kinney, you'd better do right by my baby or YOU will be the loser._ As he walked into his bedroom to look for an outfit to wear, he thought maybe he would call Michael at the comic shop to see if he could steal the man away for lunch. After his showdown with Brian at Kinnetik earlier, he didn't think it was exactly prudent to try and contact Teddy there for a lunch date.

A knock on the door interrupted his search for the appropriate lunch duds. He couldn't help the cringe and collective groan as he heard who it was trying to get his attention. "Honeycutt! I know you're in there. Answer the fucking door – NOW!"

"Always the consummate, classy guy, aren't you Brian?" Emmett retorted, as he grudgingly opened the man to allow him to enter. He figured if the brunet had wanted to reduce him to a pulp, he would have already done it earlier in his office. "So what brings you here to my humble but tasteful abode?" He noticed as he scrutinized the other man that he must have had an early lunch date with his good buddy, Jim Beam; he could smell the man's _friend_ from 10 feet away.

"What the fuck do you THINK?" he snarled. "I need to see Justin. JUSTIN? Come out here!" he yelled into the bedroom.

Emmett rolled his eyes; the man just was insufferable at times, and his method of pain management was really getting old. "He's not here, Brian," he reported, as the other man looked at him skeptically. "Go ahead," Emmett urged him. "Go look for yourself if it makes you feel better. He's NOT here," he repeated as Brian decided to go take a look himself.

Several seconds later, the brunet returned. "Well, where the fuck is HE?" he demanded.

Emmett was torn between actually telling the man where Justin was or playing dumb. He knew how much Justin still loved this stubborn, fucked-up man and yet a _drunk_, _belligerent, _stubborn, fucked-up Brian Kinney might not be such a good person to have a logical, intelligent conversation with. Making an impromptu decision, he stated, "I don't know where he is. He said he wanted to be alone to think, maybe do some sketching. And he didn't tell me where or when he would be back."

Latching somewhat desperately onto Em's last statement, Brian said, "So he will be back here later?" No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite keep the hopeful tone from escaping.

Again torn between the truth and what he thought would be best for Justin, he finally decided it would be best for his friend to decide that. "Maybe. But I don't know when. Why don't I just let him know you were here?" Somehow he really didn't think that was going to appease Brian, however. Turns out he was right.

"No," Brian remarked firmly and just a little too loudly. "I want to SEE him. Tell me where he is," again he demanded.

In Brian's present inebriated state, though, there was NO way Emmett was directing him to the park to see Justin, at least until the man hopefully sobered up some. Obviously, though, something had affected the man. With any luck, Emmett's words of advice had soaked in and Brian would wind up doing the right thing by his partner.

"I TOLD you, Brian, I DON'T know. Now I'm going out for lunch – you can either go somewhere and try to get a bite yourself to sober up, and you can sit out there by my door for who knows HOW long until Justin comes home. It's your choice – but you're NOT staying in here." To emphasize his point, Emmett walked toward the door and held it open. He decided he'd just have to go out in his morning duds if he had any hope of getting the man out of his apartment. _Justin, I hope you take your time…..someone's going to need a while to straighten himself out – that is, if he doesn't go drinking again with his friend Jim Beam._

There was a momentary stare-down until finally Brian muttered, "Yes, oh queen," and partly stumbled out of Emmett's apartment. "I'll be back," he either promised or threatened, as he slowly trundled out to the street. Emmett was concerned the man would try to drive in his drunken condition, but he was relieved to watch the man get in his 'Vette and just sit behind the wheel with the motor off. Apparently Brian was determined to sit there until his partner returned.

Shaking his head in frustration, Em walked down to the sidewalk, turning south. He decided maybe a walk to Michael's shop would help him clear his head somewhat and give him a little peace, something that he seemed to be sorely lacking lately. And as much as he hated to do it, he debated whether to call Justin to give him a heads up who would be waiting for him when he returned, or IF he returned. He wasn't sure if Justin was in any mood to have what might turn out to be another confrontation with Brian.

Turning around briefly to make sure Brian hadn't moved from his spot in front of the apartment, Emmett sighed before flipping open his phone again. Justin answered on the third ring.

"Hey, Em," Justin said. "Is something wrong?"

"Are you still at the park, Baby?"

"Yeah. Did you wind up going out to eat?"

"I was getting ready to. But I got delayed. That's what I need to talk to you about."

"What do you mean?"

There was a brief pause. Making up his mind, Em told his friend, "I think you should know. I just had a visitor to my apartment. He's looking for you. He's also drunk as a skunk."

He heard the blond's sigh. "Where he is now?"

"I told him he couldn't stay in my apartment, because I was going to lunch. So he's sitting in the 'Vette right in front of my place. I think he's going to plant himself there until you come back. By the way, I told him I didn't know where you were or when you were coming back. I wasn't sure you wanted to try and have an intelligent conversation with him in that state."

"Yeah, probably not," Justin muttered. "In fact, I'm not even sure I want to have a conversation with him at ALL, not after the things he said to me." He took a quiet breath before continuing. "He really hurt me, Em," Justin admitted.

"I know, Baby," Em said gently. "But as much as it pains me to say it, if Brian didn't care as much as he did, he wouldn't be so fucked up right now. You know how the man is, talk first and think later."

"Yeah, but I also know he doesn't say things he doesn't mean. So how am I supposed to believe him if he tells me he was wrong, that he didn't mean it? You can't tell me there wasn't at least a grain of truth in what he said to me."

Em bit his lip in thought. "I wish I could tell you what to do, Baby, but I can't. Only you can decide if you want to try and patch things up with him. But if you do, I think he needs to sober up first."

"I won't disagree with you on that. Brian's formidable enough to deal with without him being drunk and/or drugged out on top of it. By the way, how did Brian know where I was?"

Em knew it was time to come clean about all of it. "Sweetie, there's something you should know….."

Justin heard the hesitancy in his friend's voice. "What is it, Em?"

"I think I might know why Brian's here……I sort of went over to Kinnetik this morning and had a _chat_ with the man."

"A _chat? _Just what type of _chat?_" Justin didn't like the sound of that for some reason.

"Well, I guess you would say it was a _you fucked up_ type of chat," he answered.

Justin closed his eyes in dread. "Em, just what did you tell him? And was it before or AFTER he threw you out?"

"Well, he did the typical Brian Kinney growl and snarl routine at first, but I just did my best lion tamer imitation and he backed down into his chair like the good little trained tiger he is."

Justin snorted. "Somehow I don't think that's exactly how it went. But I'm impressed by the fact that you apparently got out of there in one piece."

"Yeah, well to be honest, I WAS a little worried about that for a while. Teddy was, too. But I got to say my piece before I left."

"And just what did you say to him, Em?"

"I told him what had happened just before he got to the loft. That you tried to stop Marchant from entering but couldn't keep him out. How the man wouldn't take no for an answer."

"And did he actually believe you?"

"Oh, I think once Teddy verified what happened at Babylon when our little chef tried to turn into Fred Astaire and instead wound up turning into Ginger Rogers instead, he began to think maybe I was actually telling him the truth."

"Babylon? What does that have to do with what happened?" Justin asked, confused. Brian had said nothing about Babylon when he confronted him at the loft.

"Oh, he no doubt didn't get around to that little issue. It seems Mr. Kinney picked up the latest copy of _Pittsburgh Out_ at the airport when he got back, and it had a photo of none other Pepe LePew with a certain, adorable blonde twink, apparently dancing _cheek-to-cheek_ with him. Or at least _cheek to back _in your case."

"No!" Justin groaned. "I had no IDEA someone had taken our picture, much less that it was in some magazine. No wonder Brian was so pissed. No doubt he was already steaming over that picture. Finding me and Marchant together at the loft was just the icing on Pepe's cake."

"I'm afraid so. But like I said, Teddy straightened him out as to what happened immediately after that photo was taken."

"And did Brian believe you?"

"Thanks to Teddy backing me up, I can safely say that Mr. Kinney was definitely looking a certain shade of green when I left. Only this time it wasn't from jealousy – it was from being sick over realizing he had fucked up. I must say, it looked quite becoming on the man."

Justin couldn't help smiling a little. "Em, you certainly have balls."

"Big ones, honey, big ones. Only I guess you'll never get to see them for yourself….Something tells me a certain brunet will be trying hard to get you reacquainted with his in no time."

Justin muttered, "We'll see about that, Em. We've still got a lot to clear up. A lot of talking to do. And I'd rather do it when the man is _sober._ I guess the only question is, how long will THAT take?"

"Well, Baby, I'll have to leave that up to you. Me, I'm on my way to try and snag Michael for lunch. Maybe with his best friend occupied, Michael and I can talk about _something else_ for a change."

"Please," Justin implored. "I'm sure it goes without saying that I would rather NOT get Michael involved with my and Brian's difficulties. The last thing I need is for Michael to come running over to try and play mediator. That is, if he even _wants_ the two of us to be together. I still wonder about that sometimes, even if he IS married to Ben."

"Don't worry, Baby, your secret is safe with me. I'll make sure Michael and I discuss everything BUT his favorite subject. Just don't be surprised if you come back to my place and see a certain brunet planted right outside. I didn't see any more of his friend Mr. Beam with him, at least. But he also shows no sign of going anywhere until he sees you."

Justin sighed. "That's something, I guess. But Mr. Kinney is going to have to do some serious _groveling_ here, Em. He said some really hurtful things to me." Even now, just replaying Brian's scathing words back in his head made his heart pound and his eyes tear. But Justin wasn't fooling himself. Despite what Brian had said to him, he still loved the man with all his heart. _ I will never be "done" with this strong-willed, passionate but vulnerable man._

Making up his mind, Justin asked his friend a favor. "Em, do you think you could find something to do after lunch that would keep you out until, say dinner time?"

Em smirked to himself. He knew what was coming. "I can always go shopping, Baby – it's in my genes. Or should I say _jeans._ Not a problem," he assured his friend. "Just keep your whip handy in case the tiger gets out of hand again. I think he might revert back to his jungle ways without some constant reinforcement."

Justin chuckled softly. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind. You go enjoy your lunch. I'll pick up my whip on the way back to your place." As Justin flipped his phone shut, he wondered just how much his _tiger _would be a pussycat by the time their conversation was over.


	11. Chapter 11: A Little Dash Of Sunshine

It took Justin a good forty-five minutes' walk from the park back to Emmett's apartment; if he had walked briskly he could have been back in 30 minutes. His need to do some serious thinking, though, and for his partner to do some serious _sobering up_, made him walk back more slowly. No matter how many times he tried to shut it out of his mind, the last, scathing words from Brian replayed themselves over and over again in his head. _We have a serious trust issue here, Mr. Kinney._ How they were going to resolve it was going to be the major question. Or IF they could resolve it.

As he neared his friend's apartment, Justin held his breath and then sighed as he noticed the familiar, dark green 'Vette parked directly in front. With some trepidation, he walked closer to the open driver's side, observing his partner either asleep or passed out in the seat. His heart skipped a beat and he couldn't help looking tenderly at the brunet as he heard his soft snoring. _You stubborn, stubborn man. _

Pausing for a few beats, trying to decide what to do, he finally reached over and gently nudged his shoulder. "Brian?" he gently called.

There was no response at first, so Justin tried nudging him again, this time a little more forcefully. "Brian. Wake up."

"Huh?" The brunet finally mumbled, looking around briefly disoriented before locating the source of the sound he heard. As his hazel eyes slowly focused on the slender blond staring at him intently, there was a definite softening in his expression. He reached his long arm over to his partner's face and with surprising gentleness, slightly brushed it across his lover's cheek. "Sunshine," he slurred slowly, drawing out the syllables. "I've been, I've been waiting for you…..Where have you been?" The question, rather than coming out as an accusation, instead sounded plaintive and forlorn.

His partner had obviously made good friends with his scotch; he was definitely still quite inebriated. And the last thing Justin wanted to do at that moment was try and have an intelligent discussion with his lover over an issue that was so important. Most likely, Brian wouldn't even remember what they had talked about tomorrow, anyway. On the other hand, his partner was in no condition to drive and he didn't want to saddle Emmett with trying to accommodate a very drunk, surly, opinionated man.

He noticed the keys to the 'Vette thankfully weren't in the ignition; making an impromptu decision, however, he grasped the hand that was still holding his cheek and lightly squeezed the fingers, saying, "Brian – give me your keys."

Brian raised his eyebrows in a question. "No, no, Sonny Boy….This isn't a hotel. There's no vacancy here."

Justin rolled his eyes. "Brian, you have no idea what you're saying, and you're in no shape to drive. Come on, now, get out of the car and give me the keys so I can drive you home." The blond opened the door, hoping to encourage his partner to follow his advice.

"Get your own car, Sunshine! This one's mine," he insisted. "Naughty boy," he slurred.

Justin sighed; this was going to be hard. There was no way he could physically move this stubborn man if he didn't WANT to be moved.

"Brian," he tried again, this time leaning down into the car and moving closer to the brunet to try another tactic. "I'll make you a deal," he said softly. "You let me drive back to the loft and I'll let YOU drive when we get there." He reached down and squeezed the brunet's cock – something told him this type of incentive might be the only action that would get his attention at the moment and get his partner back home, even though Justin knew he had no intention of carrying anything out once they got there. The two of them had a lot of issues to address before they fell into bed; their sex life was always mind-blowing, but this situation could not be fixed with a simple fuck this time. But as the saying goes, desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Ah, Sunshine," Brian stumbled over his words. "You DRIVE a HARD bargain," he drawled. Justin breathed a sigh of relief when the older man slowly poured himself out from behind the driver's seat. Wrapping an arm around the brunet's shoulders to help prop him up, Justin inquired, "Brian – where are your keys?"

"Down there," Brian slowly answered, nodding toward his jeans pocket. "Go fish," he slurred, chuckling at his little joke.

"Oh, brother," Justin muttered; he knew he'd never get the keys out of Brian's pocket once the man was sitting in the passenger seat. Bracing his body against Brian's and wrapping his arm around the other's waist, he reached down into Brian's pants pocket with his free hand to try and dig the car key out.

Brian actually _giggled_ as Justin's hand groped inside the other man's pocket to finally curl around the car keys. "A little lower and to the right," he advised, as if he were instructing his partner where he itched; on second thought, maybe that wasn't so far from the truth. The blond thankfully came up fairly quickly with the keys; just in time, because he noticed that wasn't the only thing _coming up _on the brunet_. Don't even think about it, Big Boy._

He heard a groan of disappointment as he declined to scratch his lover's _itch_, opting instead to tighten his pressure on the brunet's waist and steer him around the back of the car and over to the passenger side. Unexpectedly quiet for a change, Brian thankfully stumbled into the passenger seat, grunting as his head hit the top of the car briefly before he angled his body and sat down. Justin let out a large breath of relief as, his partner finally seated where he needed to be, he shut Brian's door and walked back around to the driver's side. _This was going to be a LONG night._

Justin bent down and sat in the driver's seat, having to move it markedly forward to accommodate his much slighter frame. He had never actually driven Brian's _baby _before; if he fucked something up, he would never hear the end of it from his partner. Nervously fidgeting while he adjusted the steering wheel, he hoped he could even see over the damn hood; in this car, he felt like he was sitting on the GROUND.

Speaking of his partner, he spared a quick glance over at the brunet, who was studiously examining him intently in return. "What?" Justin asked somewhat irritated, already a little nonplussed by being thrust unexpectedly into his role as a sports car driver.

Brian emitted a giant yawn suddenly, drowsiness about to overtake him. "I make it a practice never to fuck my chauffeur," he answered formally. "I don't fuck and drive," he explained solemnly, before bursting out laughing.

Justin shook his head in exasperation and rolled his eyes. "Since when?" he muttered under his breath.

"Ring me when we arrive home, James," Brian instructed his "chauffeur," before he finally turned on his side and closed his eyes.

He made a quick phone call to Emmett to advise him he would be driving Brian back home before starting the car and slowly pulling out into traffic; he looked over once again at Brian's face, now finally peaceful in slumber. "You crazy, fucked-up, unbelievable man," he declared softly, shaking his head again and biting his lip. "But I still love, you damn asshole," he sighed. "Just don't think I'm letting you off the hook so easily, Kinney," he retorted to himself.

* * *

Approximately fifteen minutes later, Justin safely made it back to the loft; but once again, he had to try and persuade a sleepy, drunken Brian to emerge from the car to help get him inside. He hated to wake him up again, but he had no choice. Turning the car off and pocketing the keys temporarily, he reached over and nudged the other man's shoulder. "Brian – wake up. We're home."

"Mmmm?" Was the only halfway intelligent mumble he received.

_Here we go again_, Justin thought. Unfastening his seatbelt, Justin opened the driver's side door and walked around to Brian's side. Opening the other door and unlocking the brunet's seatbelt, also, he tried once again to get his partner's attention. "Brian," he side forcefully. "Time to get up."

"Can't get it UP now, Sunshine," Brian advised him. "Wakey, wakey," he sing-songed as he looked down.

Rolling his eyes, Justin reached down to physically pull the other man up from the seat. "Brian, help me here," he implored, trying but not succeeding much in tugging the brunet's dead weight up from the car. "Time to go to bed," he added as an afterthought.

He noticed, without too much surprise, that Brian's eyes seem to perk up at the sound of the word _bed._ _Figures_, he smirked. "Why didn't you _say so_, Sunshine?" Brian slurred, as he pulled himself up haltingly from the seat, Justin again having to catch the taller man around the waist to prevent him from falling. "I have a fucking schedule to keep," he advised the other man. "I'll have you know my loft is written up on _Tricker's Digest. _Tricks are for kicks," he recited as he and Justin slowly ambled toward the entrance. As Justin punched in the security code for entrance, Brian reached to grasp the blond's slender wrist to peer over at his watch. "Oops, Sunshine! My eight-o'clock trick is LATE! No mint on the pillow for HIM," he admonished, as Justin pushed him gently into the lobby and impatiently punched the elevator button. Anxiously waiting for the lumbering car to descend to the ground floor, he continued to hold onto Brian's waist to keep him propped up.

"Come on, Brian," he urged the other man, as the elevator car finally stopped and the door opened. As the brunet stumbled into the elevator, Justin had to continue to hold onto him; in the relatively cramped space, however, he wound up turning to face the other man, who promptly took advantage of the situation to wrap both of his long, lean arms around the blond's waist. "Trying to take advantage of me, Sunshine?" he drawled sexily, wrapping his arms farther around the slim body to pull him closer against his own, their entire bodies now flush with each other.

Even in Brian's drunken state, Justin couldn't control his body's reaction to the other man as he licked his lips nervously and looked up into the somewhat cloudy eyes of his partner. Against his better judgment, he issued only a feeble protest as Brian leaned down to kiss the plump, wet lips, tongues automatically coming out to play. He couldn't deny that he relished the other man's kiss and his touch for several seconds until the car came to a stop and he somewhat reluctantly pulled away from the brunet. Brian's arms remained around the other's waist possessively, however, as they both slowly trudged over to the loft door together. _Almost there,_ Justin thought with relief. _But then what?_

Closing the heavy door behind them, Justin steered Brian toward the bedroom; it was still early, but it was obvious Brian needed to sleep his stupor off before they could have any type of meaningful conversation.

"You're so impatient, _Mr. Bubble Butt_. Don't worry, you're my best fuck buddy," Brian assured him solemnly, crossing his heart symbolically as was walked backward and tripped a little on his way up to the bed. As they came nearer to the foot of the bed, Justin was only too glad to reach down and pull back the covers before giving the bigger man a little push, the brunet finally falling back onto the bed with a solid thump. He bounced a little on the mattress before coming to rest in the center of the bed.

"So grabby," Brian chided the other man, as he playfully knocked the other man's hands away from his belt, which Justin was trying unsuccessfully to unhook. "You're not helping me here, Brian," Justin grumbled. He finally managed to unzip the brunet's zipper before Brian grabbed one of his hands and placed it firmly over his cock. "Little Brian wants to come out to play," he teasingly told his partner.

"Well, _Little Brian_ CAN'T come out until you let me unhook your belt," Justin sternly advised him, hoping to appeal to the other man's more prurient nature. Working like a charm, Brian promptly flopped down obediently on his back, hands limply lying immediately on either side of his body as Justin finally succeeded in undoing his belt and pushing the pants down the lean legs. "Have you way with me, then, you vixen," Brian helpfully responded, as Justin took advantage of the other man's momentary submissive state to pull the brunet's long-sleeved shirt up his chest. "Raise your arms, Brian," Justin coached, as if he were speaking to a little child who was just learning how to change his clothes. "I need to take your shirt off." He knew Brian hated to wear any clothing that was scratchy to bed; hell, the man hated to wear _anything at all._ But in his current situation, Justin thought it prudent to at least leave the other man's briefs on – no sense in taking a chance on things getting out of hand, he decided.

Finally succeeding in removing the other man's pants, shirt, shoes, and socks, Justin decided not to push his luck by moving Brian any further, even though the man's head was nowhere near his pillow. He did manage to reach over and pull the thick duvet over the man's body, but not before allowing himself to gaze appreciatively at the long, lean, toned body that he knew and loved so intimately.

He sighed in frustration as he gently brushed back the other man's errant hair from his eyes. _Sweet dreams_ somehow came unbidden silently from his lips, as he bent to briefly bestow a kiss on his partner's forehead before collapsing onto the other side of the bed, fully clothed. There would be time tomorrow to sort through the mess that still existed between them. For now, he was content to just lie there and listen to Brian's even, familiar breathing before he, too, finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.


	12. Chapter 12: A Heaping Cup of Forgiveness

A pesky, annoying sound eventually invaded Brian's senses as he slowly emerged from his drunken stupor of the night before. It still took him several seconds to fully waken as he eventually realized the incessant buzzing sound was coming from his alarm clock. Smacking the top of it to turn it off, he ventured to raise his head slightly, only to be greeted with a fucker of a headache.

"Shit," he muttered, as he plopped his head back on the mattress to alleviate the pain. He had been drunk enough times before to easily recognize the hangover he was currently experiencing, but he realized for once he had no clear idea how he had actually gotten home, and in his bed, no less.

Forcing himself to finally sit up against his body's protests, he leaned back against the headboard and tried to think clearly about what had happened yesterday. What was the last thing he remembered? He could recall going to work in the morning, only to be visited by Emmett, the Righteous Queen of Liberty Avenue. And he could remember Emmett summoning Theodore into his office to back up what he said had actually happened at Babylon the night that bastard, Marchant, had danced with Justin.

_Justin._ _Fuck._ Did he see Justin yesterday, too? Hazy recollections, whether real or imagined, slowly coalesced in his brain. He remembered storming out of his office and paying _His Royal Majesty_ Emmett a visit at his royal residence soon after he had left Kinnetik. And he could remember bringing his best friend, Jim Beam, along with him when he went to visit, and he could recall demanding to know where Justin was. But what happened after that? He didn't think Emmett had told him where to find Justin; in fact, it seemed like the opposite – the man had been downright obstinate about it. But he could swear he could remember Justin being with him, remember his familiar, sweet, unique smell, and remember his soft touch. So what HAD happened? Was that all just wishful thinking in his befuddled, besotted head?

He was about to drag himself up and out of the bed when he happened to glance over to his left, where his partner always slept, and noticed what appeared to be a note lying on top of the pillow. Reaching over to grab it, he immediately noticed the blond's familiar, unique handwriting. _Well, he was here at SOME point._ Unfolding it, he read his partner's message:

_Brian – You were in no shape to carry on an intelligent conversation last night. If you still want to talk to me, you can find me at the park near the lake. J_

Brian sighed; so he WASN'T imagining that his partner had been here last night. He should have known right away – that touch and smell were too vivid to have just dreamed it up. At least Justin wasn't shutting him out altogether, so he still had a chance to hopefully make things right with his partner again. He knew he had made some pretty terrible accusations to him the other night; it probably wasn't going to be easy to fix the damage he had done. But he knew he had to try; damn it, he _loved_ the man. That hadn't changed, and truth be told, it never WAS going to change, if he had anything to say about it.

Flipping his phone open briefly to call Cynthia to inform her he wasn't going to be in for a while, he found a couple of Advil to down and trudged over to the shower to prepare for one of the most important meetings he would ever have in his life.

_

* * *

_

_Highland Park – Pittsburgh_

The early morning sun had finally broken through the clouds and warmed Justin's face as he sat on one of the benches surrounding the reservoir. Ever since he had developed his love for drawing as a child, he had enjoyed coming here to sit and observe the constant ebb and flow of people, animals, and vegetation that was constantly changing throughout the year. It was still early spring; the only sign that the season had begun were the pansies blooming nearby and the unexpectedly warm weather today. It was already in the low 50's with a forecast of about 10 degrees warmer before the day was over; he only wished his present mood matched the warming temperature.

He had tried to sleep in Brian's bed last night, at least once the brunet had finally slumped onto the mattress and fallen into a drunken slumber. In fact, he HAD been able to fall asleep pretty quickly initially as he had listened to his partner's familiar breathing; however, after waking up an hour later he finally realized there was no way he could stay there. They still had a lot of talk about; that is, if Brian wanted that. He had decided to leave him a note telling him where to find him; it was up to Brian now to determine if that was what he wanted.

Noticing a swan gliding through the water, he picked up his sketchpad and pencil to begin tentatively outlining the pastoral scene in front of him. Thank goodness his art helped to relax him and keep his mind off more emotional matters. He tried intently to concentrate, pink tongue darting out briefly to lick his lips and blue eyes moving back and forth from his pad to the bucolic scene in front of him, but his mind was elsewhere. On a certain stubborn, pigheaded, irritating, but vulnerable man who could make him feel both tenderness and frustration at the same time; a man who when it came to relationships was still in kindergarten. And he acted like it, too, Justin thought wryly.

"Aiming to be the next Audubon now, Sunshine?" Justin didn't have to turn to know who was speaking to him; even if Brian hadn't used his nickname, he would have known that voice anywhere, even if he was blind. Turning to his right to acknowledge his partner's presence, he noticed surprisingly that Brian was dressed casually in a black leather jacket, white tee shirt, and blue jeans; he would have expected the brunet to be wearing his typical week day suit and tie. Of course, Justin couldn't help thinking that Brian always looked stunning no matter what he wore, or didn't wear. He also observed that his partner seemed much more sober and lucid now than he did last night; he was always amazed by the way Brian could straighten himself up after an extreme round of drinking the night before.

"You're not going into work?" he asked the other man, who was standing somewhat awkwardly about ten feet away, apparently waiting for some sign of encouragement from the blond.

"Probably later," he admitted. "It depends."

Justin raised an eyebrow. "Depends on what?" he prodded curiously.

"It depends on you. And me." He lips curled under as he continued to stand uncomfortably nearby.

"What about you and me?" Justin pressed, eyeing the other man intently.

Brian sighed softly. "You're not going to make this easy on me, are you Sunshine?"

"Should I?" the blond asked impertinently.

Brian bit his lip a little, wanting desperately to be closer to his partner, to try and undo the damage he has caused, to try and explain why he had acted the way he did. "Can I sit down?" he finally requested, not taking his eyes off the younger man.

Justin licked his lips a little, unexpectedly nervous all of a sudden. His emotions were in turmoil. He loved this man so much, had loved him since the day he had met him. He knew Brian came with a lot of baggage; fuck, who wouldn't after the type of parents he had had to deal with? He really had thought he could handle Brian's emotionally-damaged psyche, but after the encounter in Brian's loft the other day, it had left him in so much pain, he was left wondering if he had bit off more than he could chew. Wasn't it meaningful, though, that this man had come here? Maybe more importantly, was it enough?

After several seconds, he realized with a start that Brian was still waiting for an answer from him; the brunet continued to look at him as if he were almost afraid to breathe.

Finally, Justin simply nodded, not quite trusting his voice, which was threatening to break as he rehashed once again their painful confrontation from the other night.

Brian did not wait for his partner to possibly change his mind; he slowly walked over and sat down next to the blond. Tentatively, he started to reach out to take Justin's hand, but he noticed with a heavy heart that the younger man reacted by subtly moving both of his slender hands together in his lap, his sketchpad held securely underneath. Instead, Brian had to be content for now to reach over and place his arm across the back of the park bench, not daring to actually touch the slim shoulder he craved to embrace so much.

Trying an initial attempt at humor, he began, "I thought about bringing you a peace offering – maybe some cherry turnovers or something. But on second thought I figured that probably wasn't a good idea under the circumstances." He noticed to his chagrin that Justin didn't even crack a smile at his endeavor to be clever. He decided perhaps it was time, instead, to maybe take a different tactic – honesty.

"Justin," he began. Where should he start? This was so fucking hard for him. Hell, it wasn't like he exactly had great role models growing up. Having a frigid ice queen for a mother and a drunken, bigoted father who enjoyed nothing better than beating him up on a regular basis didn't exactly give him the proper tools to develop relationships. Especially ones as important as this one.

At least his partner wasn't ignoring him as he returned his gaze. Taking that as an encouraging sign that perhaps not all hope was lost, he felt emboldened to try and explain his actions from the other night. Just say it, Kinney. He took a deep breath before the words tumbled out. "I fucked up the other night, Justin. I jumped to conclusions without giving you a chance to explain." He wasn't prepared, however, by the torrent of emotion that gushed forth from his partner.

Justin's eyes suddenly glistened over as he cried, voice choking, "You're damn right. You really hurt me, Brian."

"I know, Sunshine," Brian whispered softly, helplessly, trying somehow to comfort the other man. He longed to take Justin in his arms and wipe out all the pain that was so obvious in his voice, but he knew that wasn't possible at the moment. The only thing he could do was try and make Justin understand that he wasn't the only one in pain, to try and explain why he did what he did. "Justin, I know I was wrong. I can't take back what I said now. I can only try and explain why I acted the way I did."

As Justin bowed his head and sniffled, Brian couldn't stand it anymore. Daring to risk it, he removed his arm from the back of the bench and reached over gently to hold the quivering chin, slowly raising and turning his partner's head to look at him. The unwashed tears were escaping down the pale cheeks unabated now, only adding to Brian's remorse and guilt.

"Justin," he began again, his voice filled with emotion as the blue eyes finally looked at him. "Please don't cry, Sunshine," he begged, wiping some of the other man's tears away with his thumb. His heart swelled as he found the courage to finally tell this man what he really felt. "Do you know how much I fucking love you?" he questioned softly, seeing a look of surprise on the other man's face at his unexpected confession. "When you left with the....._fiddler_, it hurt. A LOT. Maybe you had some idea that it hurt, but you don't know how fucking MUCH it hurt. I tried to push you away, I know, because I thought it was best for you. But it was never what was best for me. And when you came back to me, it was the happiest fucking day of my life." He noticed Justin looking at him intently now, holding his breath, as he admitted in a whisper, "I lost my heart to you a long time ago, Justin."

Justin started to say something, only to have Brian gently clamp his fingers over the pink lips. "Let me finish before I fucking run out of courage," he scoffed, reaching this time to tenderly caress the other man's cheek once he was sure he would not be interrupted. "When I saw you the other day with….that MAN…..and it looked like the two of you were about to kiss, I just lost it. I know – I should have waited for you to explain – but all I could see was the man I love way too fucking close to some arrogant French son of a bitch with a sexy accent and a body to match." At Justin's raised eyebrows, he added, "I'm not blind, you know. I noticed he was hot. I just didn't want someone that hot with YOU….except me," he joked, relieved to see that at last he obtained a slight smile in return from his partner.

"I won't promise I will never again fuck up when it comes to you and me," he cautioned the other man. "But I WILL promise that I will try to not make hasty assumptions again." Justin continued to remain quiet for far too long for Brian's comfort, making the brunet very nervous. Finally, he gently shook the blond's shoulder as he urged him, "Say something, Sunshine. Even if you're about to tear my fucking head off."

Finally, after what seemed like an interminable silence, Justin exhaled a shaky breath before speaking. "Brian, I love you, too," he reassured the other man, noticing a distinctive sigh of relief escape from the brunet's lips. Before his partner got too comfortable, however, he warned him, "But you have to TRUST me. I know I fucked up, too, when I didn't tell you what was going on with Ethan," he admitted. "But I also promised you when we got back together that I would be faithful to you, and I've kept that promise. And I intend to keep that promise. But you have to be willing to trust me," he repeated seriously. "Can you do that, Brian?" he asked the other man fervently. "Can you trust me?"

Brian looked at the man who had turned his world upside down in so many ways. The man who had latched onto him and never let go, despite his many attempts to at least half-heartedly dissuade him from having a relationship with him. The man who had slowly crept into his heart, despite his valiant effort to not let him in. And now, here he was, so fucking in love with this blond, passionate dynamo, he couldn't imagine ever letting him go. Is that why he had found it so hard to trust him, because he knew if Justin disappointed him again, his heart would break into a million pieces?

But if anyone was worth the risk, it was this man. Because the reward, the absolute, intense feeling of joy he derived from Justin's love was so fucking incredible. Making a resolute decision, his voice was strong as he replied firmly, "Yes, Justin, I CAN trust you. I DO trust you. With my most important possession. With my _heart_." He thought his heart had actually stopped beating at that moment, time suspended, as he waited anxiously for his partner's reaction to his promise. Was it enough? Finally, he had his answer.

Justin let out a breath and smiled. A true, radiant, Sunshine smile. He didn't say anything. He didn't HAVE to say anything, as he leaned over to kiss Brian's readily willing lips. Brian took advantage of his partner's capitulation to do what he had been longing to do from the second he saw him – pull the slim body to his in a tight embrace, his arms winding their way around the slender waist. He felt Justin's arms, too, slide around his back as they continued to kiss, oblivious to everything now but their touch, their feelings, their love for each other.

Finally after several minutes, they both reluctantly broke apart, still holding each other in a loose embrace. Brian leaned his forehead against the blond's as he murmured softly, "What do you say we take this somewhere more comfortable?"

"What about work?" Justin asked, somewhat breathlessly.

"Work can fucking wait," Brian growled. "We've got some more _important_ matters to take care of." Standing up now, he reached down to pull Justin up and again into his arms. He just couldn't let this man go right now. "Come back with me to the loft," he urged him, lips curling under in that little-boy smile that always made Justin melt.

Justin didn't need to take very long to decide. "Okay," he said simply, as Brian again reached down to kiss him briefly but soundly. "Come on, Sunshine," he somewhat impatiently urged the blond. "I've got a wicked craving for some of your cream sauce."

Justin chuckled. "I think that can be arranged," he reassured him, as the two of them walked toward Brian's 'Vette, hands tightly twined together.

_TBC_


	13. Chapter 13: Add Two Cups of Cream Sauce

**_A/N: The definition of "crème fraîche" is a cream that has been slightly fermented and thickened with lactic acid, often used as a topping or an ingredient in sauces. Thanks, as always, for the feedback - you guys are great! I should have at least an epilogue to this story soon. In the meantime, here's a little of "Mt. Kinney" in action as only HE can do - LOL!_**

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_Friday Night_

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," the dark-haired man said to his friend. "This has _trouble_ written all over it," he insisted with dread.

"Now, Mikey, you told me how tired you were of the professor's vegetarian lasagna and tofutti ice cream. Here's your chance to learn how to cook some _real man's _food."

"Uh, huh," the other man said dubiously. "And I suppose it's just a big coincidence that we're taking a class from the same French chef that was hitting on Justin before. Speaking of your partner, does he know where you're at tonight?"

"Uh…..Not exactly," Brian admitted nonchalantly. "He's at the movies with Daphne. Seems he promised the little waif he would take her when he and I were having our little _disagreement_ earlier this week."

As Brian dutifully spread their cooking utensils and cookware out on the long table, Michael continued to press him. "Are you going to tell me the _real_ reason why we're here? Since when did you get so interested in learning how to cook? After all, poppers already come in _ready-to-inhale _versions," he snickered.

"A man cannot live on stimulants alone," Brian intoned. "Even when mixed in with some _high protein _snacks_._"

Michael rolled his eyes; he was getting nowhere with his friend, but he knew Brian definitely had an ulterior motive for them being here. When his friend had called him last night to invite him to this one-time cooking seminar with Gaston Marchant, he thought he was having hallucinations. Emmett and Ted had already filled him in on everything that had happened earlier in the week at Babylon, as well as the major blowup that had ensued afterward at Brian's loft. Thankfully, he and Justin had been able to work out their differences and were back together. But he knew Brian well enough to know the man could definitely hold a grudge, especially when a certain blonde was concerned. Anyone who dared to hit on Brian's partner and not take _no_ for an answer when rebuffed was destined to pay the price for it in one manner or another. He just wasn't sure he wanted to be around when Mt. Kinney erupted. He was about to delve further into Brian's plans for their evening when he was interrupted by enthusiastic applause as he turned and noticed a lean, dark-haired attractive man walking up to the stage set up at the Pittsburgh Civic Center. As Marchant practically glided across the stage, Michael noticed a phalanx of photographers grouped near the side of the stage, being held back apparently by security but nonetheless taking advantage of their position and telephoto lenses to take several close up photos of the famous celebrity.

"Thank you. You are _too _kind," the man purred in his exotic French voice as greeted his legion of admirers, both male and female. The majority of the participants were practically salivating at the sight of the tall, elegant man that practically oozed sex appeal. Michael glanced over at Brian just in time to see him roll his eyes in disgust – or was it pity for the audience who was being duped by the man's charm?

"Thank you, thank you," Marchant kept repeating as a type of mantra, placing both of his manicured hands on the lectern temporarily set up on the stage. "I am honored to be here this evening," he smoothly stated with a small smile, soaking up all the attention from his adoring fans.

"Just look at that fake smile plastered on his face," Brian sneered. "If it was any more artificial, he could give saccharine a run for its money."

"Shh," Michael cautioned his friend. "The Great Chef will hear you."

"Do you think I _fucking_ care?" he asked his friend sarcastically.

"So tell me again why we're here?" Michael whispered. "And don't give me that bullshit again about learning to cook something new. You're cooking SOMETHING up, all right," he accused.

"Quiet, now, Mikey, we'll miss _Pepe LePew's_ opening speech." Michael gave his friend a puzzled look – _Pepe LePew?_ Grinning a little, he decided he'd have to ask Emmett about _that_ one as he heard Marchant start to speak again when the excited din finally subsided.

"Welcome to my seminar. So many enthusiastic cooks out there!" he eagerly exclaimed, as if it were the most exciting event in the world. "In the next three hours this evening, you will learn the joys of French cooking. Tonight, class, we will be making an easy but elegant dish called _volaille a la crème_, or simply _chicken in cream sauce_ for all you Yanks," he advised, winking. Several of the male and female participants let out a collective swoon.

"Give me a fucking break," Brian muttered. "You don't know the _first_ thing about _premium_ cream sauce, and you sure as hell never will," he vowed under his breath.

Michael tried to ignore the bitterness in Brian's voice as he unconsciously stared at the attractive, debonair man on stage. He could certainly see why so many men AND women found the man fascinating. The lean, toned body and sexy, French accent would undoubtedly be a tough package to ignore. The man would definitely turn heads in a crowded room. After talking to Emmett and Ted, however, he decided it was a shame the man's class, or lack thereof, didn't match the man's looks. _What a waste._

Again smiling in what Brian took as a condescending expression, Marchant continued his lesson. "Now, class, we are pressed for time this evening, and I want to have the opportunity to observe your progress as the dish is prepared. So let us take out the proper utensils and cookware for this simple, but deceptively intricate-looking dish that will no doubt impress your loved ones."

"I hope the man has a strong shovel somewhere so I can dig myself out of all this deep shit he's so full of," Brian growled. After what the man had tried to do to Justin, in the brunet's eyes this person was lower than pond scum.

Michael looked warily at Brian; the man was getting quietly angrier with each word the chef spoke; he only hoped he was out of the line of fire when Mt. Kinney finally erupted.

"Just give me fair warning before you unleash whatever it is your devious mind is engineering," he said, eyes narrowing as he glared at his friend, who just smiled innocently, eyebrows raised as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"Listen up, now, Class. You should all have a 4-lb. chicken that I have taken the liberty of having my assistant, Claude, already cut up for you in preparation for your dish this evening. It's pity that he cannot go home with you this evening to be your personal chicken butcher," he joked, as everyone snickered, except Brian, that is, who merely glowered in silence.

"Now you must take your Dutch oven – that's the heavy pot with a dome lid – and after seasoning your chicken with the pre-measured salt and pepper, place the pot on high heat and brown the fowl with 5 tablespoons of butter. Make sure you do not turn it more than once to brown it," he instructed everyone as he demonstrated the technique in his own dish. It should take about 3 – 4 minutes for each side to brown." Turning to his assistant, who had come to stand by his side, he added, "While Claude is attending to my own dish, I will now walk out into the audience to observe as you are all working on your own preparation."

Brian could swear he could actually hear a roomful of hearts rapidly beating at the thought of the Great Chef Pepe actually being willing to mingle with the simple folk; as the man walked down into the audience, the looks on the seminar participants were almost beatific as they stared, entranced, at the god who had deigned to grace them with his appearance; Brian simply thought he was going to puke.

"That is fucking pathetic," he muttered to Michael.

"Yeah," his friend agreed. "Who could imagine anyone swooning over an attractive, dark-haired sexy man? Nobody would ever react like that to you, right?"

"That's different," Brian argued. "I've got _substance_ to go with my hotness." Michael grinned at him as he raised his eyebrows at Michael in a silent look of virtue.

Brian noticed that Pepe only got to greet his adoring crowd about mid-way through the room before he was forced, reluctantly no doubt, to return to his own dish. "Don't worry, _mes amis_, I will get to the rest of you before class is over," he assured them.

"Does everyone have their chicken browned now?" He looked out over the audience all nodding at once at him as if they were bobbing-head dolls……_So gullible_, he couldn't help mumbling sarcastically under his breath. Plastering his game face back on, he smiled indulgently before exclaiming, "Good. Now we are ready to transfer the chicken to the piece of foil to keep the meat warm while we prepare the rest of the dish. Fold the foil over tightly to keep the meat moist and warm. Then take your pearl onions and sauté them in the dutch oven over _medium _heat. While one of you is sautéing the onions, the other partner should take the mushrooms and clean them before trimming the bottoms."

"I'd know of a bottom I'd like to fucking _trim_," Brian snarled.

"Why don't you take care of the sautéing?" Michael suggested. "I think it's best we keep sharp instruments out of your hands for the time being," he decided, as Brian glared at him before taking the wooden stirring spoon from the other man's hand.

Michael picked up the basket of mushrooms and, after rinsing them thoroughly in the nearby sink, took the small knife and began to trim the bottom of the mushrooms as Marchant continued. "Once the onions are thoroughly cooked, you will add the mushrooms, shallots, and sugar to the pot – _slowly_," he cautioned them as if he were instructing a group of kindergartners. "You will need to sauté this mixture for 6 to 8 minutes, until the shallots are soft and the mixture is caramelized. Does everyone know what _caramelized _means?" he asked slowly, as if everyone in the room had suddenly become mentally challenged.

"Yeah," Brian retorted. "It means eating every inch of someone's arrogant _ASS._"

Mikey corrected him. "No, Brian, that's _cannibalized." _

"No kidding," Brian sneered. "Same difference, if you ask me."

"Caramelized is a sugar oxidation that converts the mixture into a wonderfully nutty flavor," Marchant lectured.

"Yeah, _nutty_ is the operative word there, all right," Brian commented darkly, as he kept stirring the concoction while Michael began to gather the mushrooms, shallots, and sugar to add to the pot.

"While you are preparing the next part of your dish, I will come back out to observe your progress," the French man smoothly advised, as Brian again heard the collective sigh escaping the lips of a majority of the participants. He glanced around, looking for the nearest bathroom, in case his urge to puke grew stronger as the arrogant chef slowly made his way closer toward them.

Sensing a potential problem now, Michael warily turned to his friend. "Brian," he warned. "Don't start anything," he demanded.

"Now, Mikey, why would I _start something_?" he asked politely. "Just because Pepe LePew had the balls to try and _force _himself on my partner and almost turned my whole fucking world upside down when I jumped to conclusions about it is no reason for me not to join his legion of swooning fags. Why, I'm one of his biggest fans!" he exclaimed brightly, just a little TOO enthusiastically for Michael's taste and sense of safety. _Uh, oh. I don't like this at ALL._

Cursing himself for agreeing to accompany the older man to the class, Mikey held his breath as the chef drew ever nearer to them, like a helpless moth being lured to the flame – a hazel-eyed, brown-haired flame.

Marchant peered intently at the older, taller man; he knew he looked familiar somehow, but just could not recall where. He continued to approach the table curiously.

Michael noticed Brian's immediate change in posture and facial expression as his friend's previous, obvious disdain was almost instantly replaced with a drastically different look. To any other observer who didn't know his friend, one would have almost sworn that Brian was looking at Marchant as if he were the most heavenly creature he had ever seen. The brunet was apparently looking at the chef now with open adoration and lust as he blatantly raked his eyes over the elegant man's body from his head down to his toes. Brian plastered on his trademark sexiest smile as he seemed to openly flirt with the other man, who was quickly returning the man's admiring glance with one of his own.

Brian's almost dangerous good looks were not lost on Marchant; the chef stared back openly at this undeniably attractive man who had unexpectedly appeared this evening, just as the chef assumed it was going to be yet another dull, boring night with dozens of pathetic, inept losers. Things were definitely looking up, Marchant decided, as he walked closer to inspect the hazel-eyed brunet beauty with the sensual body and the come-hither smile that was just this side of a confident sneer.

Danger sirens going off in his head, Michael backed slowly away from the impending eruption of Mt. Kinney as the chef continued to approach their table. Perhaps captivated by the two attractive men flirting with each other, the photographers grouped at the nearest side of the stage trained their expensive cameras toward the striking pair in hopes of obtaining that night's prized photograph that would hopefully bring them a good amount of money for their efforts in one of tomorrow's publications.

Marchant knew his time was just about up for sautéing his dish back on stage, but he just couldn't resist finding out more about this incredibly sexy, brooding man. Walking up to within a few feet of the hazel-eyed man, he was about to greet him when he was spared the trouble.

"I am _so HONORED_ to meet you," Brian gushed, smiling now as if he were nervous at meeting such a famous personality. "I'm one of your _biggest _fans," he confirmed, as he reached out to hopefully shake the chef's hand.

Marchant smiled, flattered by the attractive man's compliment. "Thank you, uh….." he looked expectantly at the brunet.

"Brian," the dark-haired man drawled, as if he were stunned the famous chef would care to find out his name. "Brian Kinney," he said, just a little shyly, sighing now as the chef clasped his hand to shake it.

"Well, Brian, it is a _pleasure_ to meet you," Marchant purred, overemphasizing his French accent deliberately now. _Gets to them every time,_ he thought smugly.

As usual, he received the customary reaction; Brian practically swooned over the sexy voice. Breathlessly he asked nervously, "Would you look at my dish to make sure I am cooking it correctly?"

Marchant pasted on his most charming smile. "But of course, Brian," he whispered sexily. "Let me _taste_ it," he urged, as he took the wooden spoon from the other man's hand, his own, toned hand lingering several seconds longer than necessary on the other man's as he reached down to take the spoon away from him. Smiling smugly to himself, he heard a definite sigh again as Brian apparently reacted to his touch. Taking the spoon and _slowly_ raising it to his full lips, he poured a small amount in his mouth to make a pretense of tasting it. In reality, the man couldn't care LESS how it tasted; he was too busy trying to figure out how to get a taste of the _cook,_ instead; he knew the man would taste more delicious than any dish he was cooking up in this class tonight.

Nevertheless, he smiled at Brian as if he were tasting the most delectable food in the world. "Delicious," he declared, smiling his most sexy smile at the brunet; he swore he could see the brunet flush with excitement.

Michael continued to look at the impending train wreck from a safe distance. Michael knew that what the other man didn't know what that Brian wasn't flushed with _excitement_; he was flushed with extreme ANGER. Of course, Michael figured the arrogant man was just about to find that out, too.

Michael quickly learned he was correct, because as soon as Marchant declared Brian's food "delicious," (or was it _Brian_ that was delicious?), he heard his friend correct the other man. "No, _Pepe_, it's not quite delicious enough," he snarled. "I think it needs more _cream sauce._"

The use of Brian's pet name for him barely registered as Marchant saw the sexy brunet pick up the two cups of crème fraiche that were sitting in a ceramic mug and fling the entire amount directly into his astonished face.

"What is the MEANING of this?!" he sputtered as sour-smelling cream cascaded down his face and multiple camera flashes could be seen as the photographers frantically clicked away, their faces mirroring the shock still showing on the French chef's face.

The almost meek but sexy man Marchant had just flirted with was instantly replaced now by a tall, foreboding, confident and angry mountain of a man, who declared forcefully, "That was for Justin. He's got the tastiest fucking cream sauce you'll NEVER sample," he added, just before he pulled his arm back and cold-cocked the other man with one shot. As Marchant fell to the ground, unconscious, and Brian walked away, the photographers pushed through the celebrity's security men, who were too shocked by what had just happened to even think about holding them back. The money-hungry cameramen jostled for position as they stood over the famous man, white, thick cream sauce raining down over his face as he lay there on the floor, oblivious to the multitude of close-ups now being shot for what would no doubt take a prominent place in several next-day publications. The rest of the now-silent and hushed crowd stood as if they were statures, too stunned by what had just happened to their idol to even think about running after the man who had just assaulted one of the greatest modern-day icons of the cooking world.

Michael grabbed his friend's arm as soon as they were safely outside the auditorium and he was sure they weren't about to be arrested and dragged off to jail; he had had one previous taste of the local jail's accommodations and was definitely NOT in a hurry for an encore.

"I KNEW it!" he cried. "Brian – how could you DO that? Did you see all those photographers? That's going to be all over tomorrow's news!"

"Yeah," Brian said, unable to hide his obvious delight. "You have to be careful when you're using that _crème fraiche_, Mikey," he advised his friend as he assumed a heavy French accent. "That stuff fucking stinks – especially if you spill it all over you."

Rolling his eyes, Michael glanced over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed. "Do you feel better now, _Mt. Kinney?_" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Although I must admit – that was even better than the time you invented the toilet seat glue."

Brian smiled. "I don't know if it was better, but it was definitely much more _satisfying_," he stated. "Speaking of satisfying, I've got to get home for a little _satisfaction_ of my own. I know a little blonde ball of energy that should be home by now. I'm sure I've still got a lot of making up to do." He sighed, "It's a _HARD_ job, but someone's got to do it."

"Yeah – right," Michael responded sarcastically. "Well, I wouldn't want to keep you from your philanthropic mission," he decided. "Drop me off at the home of the tofutti professor and you can carry out your charitable deed then."

As they opened the car doors to the 'Vette and Michael took his place in the passenger seat, he asked his friend, "So are you going to tell Justin about your little brush with fame tonight? You know it's bound to be all over the newspapers tomorrow about how the famous French chef was literally _creamed_ by some dangerous fan run amok."

Brian smiled, replaying the event in his head. "Yeah, I _creamed_ him, all right. But I think I'll wait until tomorrow to tell Justin. Like they say, a picture's worth a thousand words. Besides, I'm more interested in trying out my own tasty dish in cream sauce tonight – over and over and over and over again."

"Spare me the details," Michael chided him as they neared his house. As Brian slowed and stopped in front, Michael exited the sports car and leaned over the door through the open window. "Well, thanks for the _interesting_ evening," he stated. "But do me a favor. The next time you decide to _cook_ something up that involves physical slapstick, give me a little more notice so I have plenty of time to get out of the way."

"Mikey, not to worry. I've got the hottest dish I can handle waiting at home right now. I think my days of cooking outside the loft are over." He winked at his friend as he drove off, thoughts of a creamy dessert occupying his mind. As he quickly rushed to get home, he inexplicably found himself thinking of inane songs with food in the title to pass the time. Just before he reached the loft, he thought of one he decided he actually liked: _Kisses Sweeter than Wine_. Smiling to himself, he eagerly leapt out of the car to go find some.


	14. Chapter 14: Ding Ding It's Done!

_Friday Evening – 11:00 p.m._

"You're back." Justin swung the heavy loft door closed as he noticed Brian lounging on the couch, long legs propped up on the coffee table and his laptop perched on his thighs. "Did you take care of your _errand_?" He tried hard to keep the prying out of his voice, but inside he was burning with curiosity over what Brian had to do earlier that evening. When Justin had told the older man he was going out with Daphne to the movies, his partner had told him not to worry, because he had something "on his plate" he had to take care of, whatever that obtuse statement had meant. Yeah, it's _done_ all right," the brunet smirked to himself, careful to keep the smugness out of his voice. It wasn't that he was deliberately trying to be vague, exactly. Well, maybe a little. Was it selfish of him to want to concentrate on more _pleasant_ things at the moment? As he had told Mikey, he would have plenty of time tomorrow to tell Justin precisely how he had spent his evening. Right now, he was craving a certain creamy dish all to himself.

As his partner walked toward him, Brian shut his laptop and placed it down on the floor, just in time to reach out suddenly and grasp Justin's arms to pull the smaller man down on top of him; Justin laughed as they both toppled sideways down on the couch.

"How was your movie," Brian softly asked, his hands busily caressing _his tasty dish_ wherever he could reach – Justin's back, his shoulders, his soft hair, his neck, his ass; truthfully, he really wasn't very interested at all in a critique of the latest Ben Affleck film; he had much more _entertaining_ ideas in mind at the moment.

Now what had Brian asked him? Justin thought in a haze, as he tried to concentrate on the question. He was finding it quite difficult right then, however, because a certain man's hands and now lips were all over him. Oh, yeah – the movie. "It was okay," Justin finally answered a little breathlessly as a pair of soft lips and a probing, talented tongue attached themselves to the side of his neck, nuzzling and licking. "Ow!" the blond cried out, as he felt a little bite on his ear, following immediately by a soothing lapping of the brunet's tongue; he could feel his cock instantly harden at the continuing onslaught and a soft moan escape his own lips as the incredible assault continued unabated. Well, two could play _that _game, he decided, as he reached up to grab the other man's head with both hands and swooped in for a kiss of his own, both tongues now dueling for dominancy.

"Mmmm," Brian moaned; damn, what this man could do to him with a few seconds' of kissing. He brought his hands down to Justin's waist to reach up under the blond's t-shirt and was instantly rewarded with a large expanse of soft, warm skin; he could feel Justin's ab muscles flexing in delightful response as he roamed over the smooth stomach. Another soft groan escaped the blond's lips as Brian found his nipples and rubbed teasingly at the little pink nubs that immediately hardened at his touch.

"My own little _cream puff,_" he murmured huskily, as Justin squirmed under his partner's unexpectedly corny endearment and his continuing ministrations. "Sweet on the outside, creamy on the inside," he announced, as he wrapped his arms around his partner's back and pulled him even closer.

Justin decided to take advantage of his position as well, reaching around to cup the brunet's ass and rub their crotches together.

"Aggghhh!" was about the only halfway-intelligible statement Brian could utter as a flash of heat ripped through him at the delicious contact.

"Yes, Brian?" the blond asked innocently, blue eyes peeking up from long lashes to gaze almost coquettishly at the other man. "You were saying something?" he smiled smugly.

The brunet managed to growl out in a sort of horny shorthand – "Bed – too many fucking clothes – NOW!" – before he quickly rolled himself upright to a sitting position, and standing up, pulled at the blond's hands to drag him up as well. Even though he was more than ready to tear off all of Justin's clothes right there and now and fuck his little _tasty treat_ senseless, he knew if they stayed on the couch, he would be stiff as a board tomorrow morning, and not in a good, life-affirming way. So the dance they knew so intimately well once again began to play, as they continued to kiss and caress each other while Brian walked his partner backwards toward the bedroom, nothing heard but their mutual moans of urgency echoing through the loft before they finally reached their target and Brian impatiently threw his _little dumpling _down on the bed, Justin's giggles escaping in between gasps of pleasure.

* * *

_Liberty Diner – Next Morning_

"Well, someone looks like they had a busy night," Deb cracked, as she noted the two sleepy-eyed men slowly trudging into the diner. They had that distinctly _fresh-fucked_ look, she noted. Even if she hadn't learned how to discern their late-night activities, she knew she hit the nail on the head when Justin smiled and blushed slightly at her statement. Even now, there was still a little of the eager high school boy left in him where Brian was concerned.

"Deb? More coffee, less editorial?" Brian asked, as he turned his cup right side up and sat down at a nearby booth next to Justin.

"Justin, honey? Can you take care of the growling tiger for me while I get these orders? You know where it's at." As Justin nodded and walked over behind the counter to grab the coffee pot, Deb winked at him knowingly and smiled, evoking yet another slight blush from the blond. _Too easy_, Debbie thought to herself, grinning as she walked over to the serving window.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the food critic," Emmett observed, as he rushed in with Ted and Michael trailing right behind him; the men immediately sat down opposite Brian and stared intently at the brunet, Michael inexplicably grinning. As Justin returned from behind the counter, he looked curiously at Emmett, who had a definite _cat that ate the canary_ look on his face. "What's going on?" he asked them, as he sat down next to his partner.

"Yeah, what the hell are you going on about?" Brian demanded. "Do I have spinach between my fucking teeth or something?"

"No," Emmett answered nonchalantly. "Nothing like that." Brian noticed that both he, Michael and Ted were looking way too smug for their own good as they continued to stare at him, smiling. Brian suddenly felt like he was looking at three triplets: _Hear no Evil, See No Evil and Speak No Evil_. "Boys, I'd love to try and figure out what the fuck your problem is, but I for one have a job to go to."

Drowning the last of his quickly-cooling, bitter coffee, he started to motion for Justin to scoot his perky little, undoubtedly sore bubble butt out of the booth when he heard Michael ask, "Have you seen this morning's paper?"

Both partners looked at Michael, puzzled, as if he'd grown a second head. After their marathon fucking session last night, the paper was the _last_ thing on their mind at the moment. "No, I'm sorry, Mikey, I haven't had time to look at _Dear Abby_ today yet," Brian responded sarcastically.

"Well, I think you might find another part of the _Life_ section of the paper particularly interesting. In fact, I think you BOTH might find it highly _satisfying_," Michael added mysteriously, as he produced the specific section with a flourish and laid it down flat directly in front of them on the table.

Justin frowned; what in the world was he talking about? As both men glanced down at the paper, Justin's eyes suddenly grew large as they immediately froze on a prominent headline: _Famous French Chef Creamed by Mystery Assailant._ Justin gasped as he recognized the man in the large color photo directly below the headline; it was an apparently unconscious Gaston Marchant, eyes closed and lying flat on his back, completely oblivious to some type of thick, white liquid that was slowly running down his face and onto the cement floor.

"Oh, my God!" Justin exclaimed. "It's Pepe!" He turned excitedly to his partner, who had his head down and was seemingly engrossed in the article as well. "What happened?" he asked Michael. "I don't _believe_ it!"

Michael pursed his lips to try and keep from laughing; he noticed a certain brunet was not meeting his gaze. Obviously, he had not told Justin yet about their little adventure. "Well, it seems _someone_ who attended one of his cooking seminars last night took offense, shall we say, at his _teaching methods_, and decided to literally throw a little of his smugness back in his face. But instead of egg on his face, he wound up with a couple cups of cream sauce."

"Well, you know what the Romulans say: _Revenge is a dish best served cold," _Emmett wisely intoned, looking pointedly at Brian – a fact that did not go totally unnoticed by his partner.

Justin, nevertheless, burst out laughing. "Shit! I don't believe it," he repeated. "Did he get hurt – other than his huge ego, I mean?"

"Nah," Michael verified, as he looked pointedly at Brian, who continued to look everywhere but at Justin. "They took him to Alleghany General just to have him checked out – he had a mild concussion and a pretty nasty bump on his head, but he was treated and released this morning. Of course, the paper says hundreds of his _adoring_ fans were camped out by the hospital entrance last night, anxiously waiting for updates on their idol's condition until he was released."

"I think I'm going to puke," Brian finally snarled disgustingly. After he discovered what the asshole was like, he found it literally sickening that so many other seemingly _intelligent_ people could be so totally deceived by his sugary, fake charm. His body tensed at the thought of just what that man might have tried to do to Justin if he hadn't interrupted the man's little plan back at the loft. He considered having a face full of sour cream extremely tame compared to what he had _really_ wanted to do to the fucker.

"Do they know who did it?" Justin asked the other men curiously, looking over at Brian who oddly continued to refuse to meet his gaze.

"No," Ted verified. "At least the paper says they don't have any suspects currently. They said Marchant claims it happened so fast, he didn't really have time to identify the assailant."

Brian snorted and his face darkened as he continued to think about the smug, arrogant man who had dared to make a move on HIS partner. _Well, Pepe, that is one sweet little morsel you are never, EVER going to taste._ He had to admit, though, he was surprised the fucker hadn't identified him as his attacker. He wasn't quite sure what Marchant's game was, but he decided it was worth it, though, no matter whether the man pressed charges or not. It was definitely worth the intense satisfaction he got and the protection he had gained for his partner. Grinning to himself, he decided he could have done without their rift; however, the make-up sex had been _unbelievable_.

As his thoughts returned to the present, he noticed an eerie quiet at the booth all of a sudden as he raised his head and looked around at everyone sitting near him. He also noticed everyone had that _cat that ate the canary look _again, everyone, that is, except a particular blond who was seated to his immediate left. Brian could almost see the little wheels turning furiously in the cute, intelligent blond head as Justin's face changed expression from puzzlement to thoughtfulness, and then to a sudden epiphany as his partner apparently put two and two together and an imaginary light bulb went on in his head. Justin's eyes narrowed as he looked over at Brian, whose lips curled under as he finally returned Justin's gaze and smirked.

"Well, Boys, I think our work here is done," Emmett announced perkily, as he noticed Brian's eyes rolling around. "Shall we?" he asked Ted and Michael, who, nodding as they smiled broadly now, rose to get ready to leave.

"What about breakfast?" Justin asked them. They hadn't even drunk coffee or juice yet.

"Oh, we already ate down the street," Emmett announced. "We just wanted to spread a little sunshine, Sunshine. Later, boys," he added, as the three of them almost giggled as they rushed out of the diner, finally leaving the two partners alone.

Justin continued to stare at Brian for a few seconds more before the brunet couldn't stand it any longer. "What?" he simply asked, holding out his palm in a questioning stance.

"You _know_ what," Justin retorted. "It was _you_, wasn't it? That little _business _you had on your _plate?"_

"Why, Sunshine, I'm not sure what you're insinuating," Brian responded obtusely.

"I'm not _insinuating_ anything," Justin growled. "You cold-cocked him, didn't you?"

Brian sighed inwardly; there was really no point in trying to deflect his partner's accusation; after all, hadn't they just had an in-depth discussion about trust, just before they had an _in-depth_ fucking session last night?

He finally muttered, "He's damn lucky he came away with ANY cock at all."

"What was that, Brian? I'm not sure I heard you correctly," Justin prodded.

Brian finally declared, "Fuck! All right! Yes! I gave the son of a bitch exactly what he deserved; the only kind of cream he was going to get – the only kind he fucking deserved! The prick's lucky I didn't throw the mug at HIS arrogant little mug, too!" He huffed in disgust, crossing his arms defiantly.

Justin looked over at his partner, now sitting like a petulant little boy, daring anyone to challenge his actions. He knew he really should be angry at him for resorting to violence to prove his point; angry at him for possibly placing himself in legal trouble, or maybe worse, for assaulting _Pepe_. But somehow he just couldn't gaze at his partner looking so childishly affronted without being amused. Despite his better judgment, he felt a smile begin to appear on his face, until it turned into a trademark beam, and then into a full-fledged giggle.

Brian looked over at his partner startled; he was expecting to be berated for his impulsiveness, or to be yelled at for taking such a risk to prove a point. But he did NOT expect the laughter bubbling up from him. He couldn't help joining in, though, as it became downright contagious.

"You should have seen him, Justin," Brian said, smiling almost proudly now. "Paler than the fucking Pillsbury Doughboy," he observed.

"Brian," Justin chided him, shaking his head. "What were you _thinking?_ You could be in a lot of deep shit for that stunt."

"Don't worry, Sunshine," he reassured the other man. "I don't think Marchant wants it publicized that an angry lover of one of his students decided to retaliate because he tried to force himself on another man. That would be so _unseemly_ for _Pepe the Great_. It would put a dark stain of scandal on his lily white uniform."

Justin continued to shake his head as he thought about his partner's impetuosity, but he couldn't help feelng touched, also, by the brunet's passion and protectiveness. Maybe Brian didn't always think things through completely but you certainly couldn't fault him for his motives. Sighing a little, he reached over to take the other man's hand, caressing it gently with his thumb as he rubbed circles on the tanned flesh. He felt Brian instantly respond to his touch when the brunet's long fingers curled around his to intertwine their hands together.

"You took a big risk, Brian," he murmured softly. "What am I going to DO with you?" he asked, pursing his lips together in amusement.

Brian leaned over and whispered to him, "Well, you can start tonight after my HARD day at the office by being my personal chef. I think I'll need you to whip up something using your own special brand of _cream sauce. _I'm downright _addicted_ to it now. After sampling yours, no one else's even _comes _close," he smirked.

Justin murmured, "Is that right, Mr. Kinney?"

"Mm hmm," Brian responded, taking a short detour to kiss the blond's earlobe briefly, his hot breath making Justin's heartbeat quicken.

"Well, after your _hard_ day of labor, the least I can do is _labor _to make you _hard _again. Don't worry - I'll fnd just the right recipe for you before you get home tonight," he assured the other man.

"I was hoping you'd say that, Sunshine."


End file.
